Greatness Thrust Upon Him
by FirstDraft
Summary: Emperor Georgious tasks Gabriel Lorca with mentoring her daughter Michael. But she ends up teaching him far more than he can teach her... My take on MU Lorca and Michael. Pls see notes at beginning of Chapter 1.
1. Chapter 1 FIRST CONTACT

This story was started prior to SE1ep13 and the reveal about Gabriel Lorca. I was not happy with what his character was turned into, for all the reasons that I have been debated elsewhere. From the moment Emperor Georgiou suggested he had "groomed" Michael, I thought it more likely that it was the other way around (NB I did not read her use of that word with the usual predatory and sexual connotations as it indeed has other meanings). So if you don't like Lorca, or his relationship with Michael, best walk away now. Peace and Long Life!

 **I. First Contact**

Gabriel Lorca has not fought, killed, backstabbed and plotted his way to the Emperor's side to become some kind of nanny. He feels punished, even though he knows others look upon him with envy – being entrusted with the Emperor's child, surely, had to be a sign of her confidence in him?

Except that this child (and who calls their _daughter_ Michael?) is not really the Emperor's child. She's adopted, a propaganda tool. She may as well be a pet. And he knows the Emperor gets bored easily. What happens when she gets bored of this girl? Would he be expected to get rid of her?

She'd been found in a rebel camp, alongside some other human prisoners. No one seemed to know how she had ended up there. She hadn't spoken much to anyone. Apparently, she had been found shot, nearly dead, clutching a phaser and muttering "Long Live The Empire."

The Emperor was moved. Michael became a poster child for loyalty to the throne, and her reward was to go from orphan to heir presumptive. Lorca gritted his teeth. If this was a fairy tale, it had to be about some kind of poisoned chalice.

The doors open before him, and he walks down the short tunnel to the stands of the Palace's training arena. The sound of fists and elbows and feet smacking against leather echo around his ears. Grunts and shouts – a child's cry, suddenly. As he steps out into the light, he finds the Emperor in training gear, standing over a dark-skinned child who's curled up on the floor, hands to her face.

"Look at me," the Emperor demands. When the girl doesn't immediately obey, she asks again, this time in a tone that won't tolerate further delay. Michael sits up, looks at her; Lorca sees tears and blood on her face. "There is no shame in crying, Michael. You are a little girl. Being punched hurts. And if you don't want to hurt again, you need to learn to hurt the other person. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Your Majesty."

"Yes... Mother."

"Mother."

"You're a survivor, Michael. I can see that. And that's the greatest strength there is. Muscles, speed, knives – are nothing without it."

"They do help, Your Majesty."

Georgiou looks at him, smiles. "Gabriel! At last. Come, meet Michael."

Lorca moves forward, bows to Georgiou then to Michael. The Emperor is pleased; the girl looks confused for a moment, before straightening herself and doing her best to copy her new mother's haughty demeanour. The red eyes and blood and snot on her face do not help.

"Your Highness, it's an honour to meet you."

The Emperor waves a hand. "You will call her Michael. She is my daughter but she has not earned that title yet. Everything has to be earned. Only the strong succeed. That is what makes us the most powerful people in this quadrant."

"What shall I call him, Mother?" Michael asks.

"Whatever he likes. _He_ has earned that."

"Captain Lorca will do fine, Michael."

"It is an honour to meet you, Captain Lorca," the girl says, offering her hand. Now Lorca begins to see what the Emperor sees in her, a raw, unthinking kind of bravery. The kind of bravery that's born either out of inexperience, or with the child. Time will tell which is which.


	2. Chapter 2 USE OR BE USED

**II. Use or Be Used**

She likes it in the dark. Some feminine vanity that won't allow her to show her battle scars? More likely, Lorca thinks, she doesn't want the vulnerability, the intimacy, that comes with nakedness. She sits astride him but although she will let him hold her hips or her ass, or sometimes attend to her breasts, she remains in complete control of everything that they're doing. In the early days, Lorca couldn't believe his luck when the Emperor invited her to her bed: she was (and still is) a beautiful, powerful woman, and a woman who hungers for you is the best aphrodisiac. Over time, of course, Lorca realised she wasn't hungry for him, as such, although obviously she found him attractive. She wanted sex and she wanted to show him that she _hungered_ , full stop. That hers was an unstoppable, unrelenting appetite. Everyone and everything was prey. She would never slack or tire.

Now he doesn't mind the darkness, even if watching pleasure etch itself across a woman's body is more than half the fun for him, because he can think more easily of other things, of other women, so he can be what Georgiou needs him to be in that moment. It's not different from the nights when he's on his own with his imagination, except more satisfying because someone else doing the work is always more satisfying than doing it yourself.

Georgiou finishes and he manages to follow quickly. She clicks her fingers and a little more light settles over them, the dusky kind that makes everything look dull and grey. She stares at him for a moment, her long hair falling to his chest, her eyes very much like a tiger's in the night. Then she is off him and reaching for her dressing gown, and he gets into his clothes as quickly as he can.

"How is Michael getting on?" she asks as he puts his boots on.

It has been six months, more or less, since Lorca has begun to spend time with the girl. He tends to leave the physical training to others, and instead he has been teaching her chess, some basic piloting and battle strategies. To his surprise, he enjoys the lessons. Michael is a diligent, hard-working child; she's clever, too.

"Very well. She likes to please. Teaching her is easy."

"Yes. Yes, I have found that to be so, as well. But just because she's easy to teach, does not mean she learns easily." Lorca frowns, unsure of what she means. "Can you imagine the chaos if I went tomorrow, Gabriel? There are many people who long to take my place. I doubt any of them could."

"I agree," he replies, and he really does. Whenever the Emperor has been replaced violently, all the jostling's for power, all the petty grievances and grudges, that normally get resolved one knife in the back at a time explode to the surface as factions seek to re-imagine the Empire in their image. It never gets better, only worse.

Emperor Georgiou has presided over one of the most stable time in the Empire's history. And there are none other like her. That's worth something more than anyone's ambition, and why she has his loyalty.

"Do you know why I adopted Michael?" she asks.

 _Not because you longed to be a mother_ , he thinks. Which leaves... "You wanted an heir, a successor. Didn't want to leave it to chance."

"Exactly right. But if that was the only reason, I could have picked – say, you. If it wasn't for the fact you are not interested." She gives him a slight, bemused smile. He knows she doesn't understand him fully and that's why she only trusts him ninety-five per cent of the time. Still, it is a lot more than she trusts anyone else. "There is no greater loyalty than that of a child for its parent. Children are clay to be moulded, iron to be forged. I need someone who _believes_ , as I do." Lorca nods. "I know you had your doubts about what I'm asking you to do. But do you understand now the responsibility on your shoulders?"

He does. He doesn't like it one bit, because of the scrutiny that comes with it. "It's an honour, Your Majesty."

"You're a smart man, Gabriel. More than that, you are wise. One of the many reasons I trust you as I do."

Lorca bows and leaves. He has just passed Michael's quarters when he hears a sharp cry from inside.

"What are you waiting for?" he snaps to the guards as he spins around only to find them not moving.

"Miss Burnham is just having a nightmare. We checked - " the guard points to the surveillance monitor.

Lorca takes a deep breath. "Let me in."

"Sir –"

"You are aware, no doubt, that I am tasked with this girl's welfare. And you must also realise that I have just left the Emperor, and I am quite happy to return to her if I need to?" The guards look at each other, frozen. When he pulls the knife from his belt, one of them finally complies, quickly entering the code on the door pad.

Unlike Georgiou's bed chamber, the lights are on. It's odd to think a child lives here: her quarters are comfortably fitted but have that impersonal aura of a hotel room. Lorca goes to her bedroom and finds Michael almost buried her sheets. He wonders if she's asleep, until the tell-tale shaking of shoulders. Lorca doesn't want to be here and isn't sure why he is. Nevertheless he sits on the edge of the bed and gently uncovers her face. She's crying, eyes screwed shut.

"Hey," he says. "Playing possum is fine, Michael, but by now I could have killed you several times over." She says something but the words get lost in cotton. "Hey, look at me, Princess. I can't understand what you're saying."

It takes a few moments but finally Michael moves, sitting up and wiping her face on her pyjama sleeves. "I knew it was you."

"How?"

"I heard you outside." Ah yes. No access to the codes for the privacy shields.

"Want me to check for Klingons under the bed?"

Michael gives him an angry look. "I know I'm crying but I'm not a baby."

"There's no shame in crying. Your mother herself said so."

"She was talking about getting punched in the face. Not crying because you're scared or sad."

 _Ah crap_. "There's no shame in being scared or sad, either. But you need to keep it to yourself, that's all. Not let it get in the way."

"You sound like a Vulcan."

He raises an eyebrow at that. He's been called many things but never that. "You should never let emotions guide you. But you need them to drive you. Fear is what keeps us alive, Michael."

"What about love?"

Lorca lets out a laugh, then realises she is quite serious. Of course she would be, she's eleven years-old. That's too young for sarcasm. "Love of things and ideas, yes. Love for people... People don't last, Michael."

She looks at him, growing still, and then past him, to the sparkling darkness outside the Palace. She seems suddenly older than her years and he worries that the Emperor has chosen too well.

"Would you read something to me?"

"Sure. What have you got?" Michael hands him her PADD then settles down under the sheet. It's a history book, which doesn't seem conducive to happy dreams to him. But he suspects it will work just fine to get her back to sleep.

It works too well, because at some point he falls asleep, too. He startles himself awake in the chair he was using and it takes him a moment to get his bearings. He checks the time; he's not been gone too long. Soft snoring draws his attention to the bed. Michael is asleep, and in her slumber has crept to the edge of her mattress and somehow draped an arm around Lorca's leg, her face resting against his thigh.

The poor girl is desperate for affection, he thinks. Georgiou has chosen well in that regard, too. He understands now the greater opportunity, to ensure his survival beyond the Emperor if he makes it that long.

 _There is no greater loyalty than that of a child for its parent._ _Children are clay to be moulded, iron to be forged._

Lorca carefully extracts himself from Michael's embrace. A little shiver runs up his leg at the sudden loss of warmth. He doesn't remember the last time someone touched him in a way that not sexual or murderous.

He thinks that maybe he should get a cat.


	3. Chapter 3 TRUST EXERCISE

**III. Trust Exercise**

"So are you going to introduce me to Her Exalted Highnessess?"

Lorca winces. There is a noisy crowd of dignitaries and parents all around them and Kat was whispering in his ear, but even so, there are things you do not say aloud anywhere but behind privacy shields, especially when the subject of the conversation is standing only a few meters away.

"Jesus, Kat, how much champagne have you managed to get your hands on? We've been here barely ten minutes."

"No. Just enough to risk a session in the agonisers for disrespecting the throne. I'll need a lot more if you were planning on taking me to bed tonight."

"Wow, thanks – torture over sex with me. I don't remember you complaining before."

Kat squeezes his hand. "And I had no reason to, Gabriel – you know that, you... Peacock."

He sighs. "First Vulcan, now peacock. Whatever next."

"How can you fake it so bad someone would call you a damn Vulcan?"

"Very funny. Michael did, actually."

"Sassy, is she?"

"Not remotely. Which is probably for the best."

She's the most serious thirteen year-old he's ever met, even now and no longer the skinny, probably traumatised war child. In fact, standing there next to her mother, you would swear they were biologically related: still slim and lithe, she is tall and all coiled power. As her opponents found out that afternoon, at the annual Imperial Academy showcase.

Kat nods. "Poor kid."

As he often does when he meets with his oldest friend, Lorca wonders why he never married Katrina Cornwell. Early on in their time at the Imperial Academy, they knew that they saw eye to eye. They wanted to succeed not for the sake of power but for survival, to be free. That gave them strategy, while the others only had tactics. And because neither of them wanted to win as such, she was the one person he trusted above all else.

Which is why her turning him down these days had him a little worried. Kat had said she was now in a relationship with someone, but would not say who. She was in line to be promoted to a Rear Admiral's position, too. Was she having an affair with a high-ranking official and unwilling to risk losing it by being caught with Lorca? Was she _in love_? Why would she even want to be an admiral?

"I meant, of course," Kat adds as she puts her now empty flute down on a passing tray, "having you for a dad."

"I am _not_ her dad –"

"I'm pretty sure you gave her the thumbs up at the end of her last fight. Somehow I don't imagine you doing that to one of your crew members. Anyway - would it be such a terrible thing?" She looks oddly wistful now.

"It would be very complicated. You know that, which is why you're not a mother, either."

"Complicated. Yes. Speaking of which - " she tilts her head, towards Michael, who is now approaching them.

They salute each other. "Michael, may I introduce Captain Katrina Cornwell?"

"Captain Cornwell, it is an honour. Captain Lorca has spoken of you many times."

"The honour is all mine, Your Highness."

"I'm just Michael," she corrects the older woman. "Captain Lorca calls me Princess sometimes, but I think he's being sarcastic."

Lorca nearly spits out his drink. He'd never meant it sarcastically, only to tease her, and he didn't think she had noticed. He drops to one knee, bows deeply. "I beg your forgiveness, Your Highness."

Michael looks embarrassed at the display, which has drawn a lot of attention, and gestures him to stand. "I think that was sarcastic, too, Captain."

"Gabriel always thinks he is the funniest man in the room, Michael. You need to give as good as you get. He'll fall in line soon enough."

An aide clears his throat behind Lorca. "Miss Burnham, the Emperor requires your presence by her side."

The girl looks disappointed. She salutes Lorca and Kat and follows the young woman.

He turns to Kat, struggling to hide his frustration. "What were you thinking, Kat, talking to her like that?"

"What do you mean?" she replies, taken aback.

"Michael is the Emperor's heir. I'm allowed to treat her with some familiarity, but only because she needs to know I am her superior when it comes to teaching her. If someone else heard you - "

Kat raises a placating hand. "All right. I get it. But you're the one who embarrassed her, not me. I think that definitely makes you her dad now."

"Nice try, but that won't change anything." Lorca scans his friend's face, her body, looking for a clue. "Something is up with you, Kat."

She sighs. "Nothing is up with me. But thank you for worrying. It's good to know someone does. I'm glad we're friends, Gabriel. So glad."

"He who does not trust enough, will not be trusted."

She and Lorca are sitting under a parasol on a Hawaiian beach, taking advantage of what passes as shore leave for the both of them on a brief return to Earth. Well, Michael is sitting – he is lying down on a towel, eyes shut, enjoying the sound of the waves lapping at the shore. She's been reading Sun Tzu's _The Art of War_. He's pretty sure she's frowning.

"How do you do that? Trust someone?"

"Mostly, you give them something to lose or to gain. The more equal the exchange, the more trust there will be."

"So what do you have to give me that means I can trust you?"

"Maybe you have something to lose."

"I think I'd survive the loss of the old man battle stories."

Lorca laughs, then realises Michael made a joke. He props himself up on his elbows to look at her. "Have you been talking to Captain Cornwell behind my back?"

She shrugs, looking pleased with herself, and he decides it's a look that suits her. "Are you and her... together?"

He's surprised by the question, because she hasn't really asked him personal questions since the night he found her crying. He's not sure how to answer, mostly because he doesn't know the appropriate one for the thirteen year-old future leader to the Terran Empire. Michael's smart, though, so he decides to go for the truth. There is never any point in lying when there's nothing concrete to be gained from it. "We used to be, from time to time. We're mostly old friends. Why do you ask?"

"You seemed... relaxed together. She teased you and you didn't seem to mind. Would you say she's someone you trust?"

"Absolutely. And if you trust me, you can trust her, too."

She nods her thanks. "So... what did you give her, or take from her, that means you can trust her?"

Lorca sits up properly now. "Ah. Well, that's because there is another reason to trust someone: a common goal. That's what Kat and I have."

"What's your goal?"

"To be free. And the survival of the Empire."

"What do you mean, to be free? What about your duty to the Empire?"

He could kick himself now. He walked right into that one. "You have to obey a lot of people, don't you, Michael? The Emperor, your teachers and instructors, even old man me. I just want to have as few people to obey as I can. One day, all being well, you will have no one to answer to."

"Except for our people. I mean – that's the reason for everything, isn't it?" She doesn't let him answer, cuts him off as he opens his mouth. "I think I know why I can trust you – with my life anyway." Lorca raises a questioning eyebrow. "My mother."

She returns to her PADD, he returns to his rest. He's glad he picked the truth earlier. It's not going to be easy to lie to her. He's glad, too, that she's wise enough to know not to share too much with him. Because ultimately his loyalty has to be to the Emperor, not Michael.

But for the first time in a long time, Michael feels like a stranger to him. And he doesn't like it.


	4. Chapter 4 SPARE THE ROD

**IV. Spare The Rod**

They have barely made it back to a starbase when the Emperor commands Lorca to report to the Charon. He travels alone as usual, to the relief of his exhausted crew, and he's only too happy to give them the rest they need. They have been gone six months, hunting a rebel cell from system to system, elusive as the proverbial white whale and, just like it, taking him to the brink of rage from sheer frustration. No doubt this is why Bianco thought it would be a good time to go after him: he was tired and failing in his mission, which would have made it difficult for the Emperor to disapprove of his being disposed of. It was a bold move for a science officer who wasn't even his second in command and Lorca wishes he could have done anything but kill her. It seems a waste of an otherwise excellent officer, not to mention a fine sexual partner.

She'd got in a few good hits before Lorca had overpowered her, and his ribs, along with his face, still felt sore. He'd refused to go to sickbay as a necessary show of strength, but applying the medical scans to yourself was not easy and he had somehow run out of his own supply of pain killers. At least the trip to the Charon would give him a chance to see a doctor there, who wouldn't know how he'd got hurt and would not care to ask.

Having boarded, he is sent directly to the Emperor's study. There he finds her looking both angry and frustrated, a woman in a technical officer's uniform looking terrified in one corner and Michael in the middle of the room, standing still as a statue and looking... defiant. She glances at him, for the briefest of moments, as he bows to Georgiou and he's shocked by how much she's grown. She is nearly fifteen years-old now: still a girl, but definitely no longer a child.

"Captain Lorca, we need to discuss your reading list."

"I beg your pardon, Your Majesty?"

"Michael was caught today breaking into the Private Imperial Archives by Lieutenant Taylor here."

It is almost shocking how bright Michael is. She excells in all subjects but science and technology are two particular favourites. She was studying encryption and firewalls when he left. Her studies have obviously borne fruit. It would have been an incredible achievement for anyone to manage such a feat, but for a teenage girl?

"I was not breaking into the archives, Mother, I was testing the security –"

Georgiou spins around and as fast as she moves, a blade comes flying out of her hands, skimming past Michael's cheek and embedding itself in a painting on the far wall of the study. Lorca manages to strangle the cry that wants to come out of his mouth, but Taylor does not.

"QUIET." He watches the clenching of Michael's jaw, the slight tremor in her hand, her eyes begin to shimmer. "You know, Michael, that such crimes are punishable by death."

"How can it be a crime? Am I not your daughter?"

"My orders, my edicts, apply to all, including my daughter. They must."

"I was trying to impress you, Mother -"

"Yes, you explained that. Because of something you read in a book that Captain Lorca gave you."

He freezes. That explains the reading list comment. Works of fiction are generally not encouraged, except as propaganda and homilies. He had been careful to only share meaningful stories – old ones, to give her a sense of her place in time and history – and if one encouraged rebellion, it would also have featured punishment.

"Michael?"

"Answer him," the Emperor barks when Michael doesn't reply.

"Prometheus," she answers quickly.

Lorca had given her a selection of stories from ancient Greek and Roman mythologies - because they all depicted fearsome Gods you should not try to double-cross.

"What happens to Prometheus, Michael?" he snaps, desperate for Georgiou to see his intent.

"He is chained to a rock, and every day an eagle comes to eat his liver. For all eternity."

"Did you also not get as far as the story of Icarus?" She doesn't respond. "He flies too close to the sun and it melts the wax holding his wings together. He falls to his death."

Georgiou steps up to Michael, studies her for a moment. When she raises her hands to her daughter's face, Michael flinches. No strike comes, simply the tender touch of a mother holding her daughter's face.

"What is the trait I despise above all else, Michael?"

"Cowardice."

"What is the trait I admire above all else?"

"Courage."

"You are one of the most courageous people I know, Michael. I am already impressed. Already proud. But courage also means accepting responsibily and dealing with the consequences of your actions."

Lorca stops breathing. He cannot believe that Georgiou would kill Michael over this. The offense has not been committed publicly, after all. No one has to know. He weighs his options, wonders what would happen if he spoke now, and what he could possibly say. Blood thunders in his ears, making it hard to hear his own thoughts.

"If someone caught you breaking into their house, what would you do, Michael?"

"Kill them." She answers quickly this time, probably desperate to obey her mother into survival. Then she realises what she's just said, just as Lieutenant Taylor begins to cry and stammer promises of silence and fealty.

"You've made a mess, " Georgious says softly, her hands going to Michael's and leaving a knife in it. "Now you have to clean it up."

Michael opens her mouth but nothing comes out. She looks at Lorca, pleading for something, suddenly looking like a little girl again.

"But Lieutenant Taylor only did her duty, and should be rewarded for it – " she tries.

The Emperor's nostrils flare with barely-contained fury. "It's Taylor or you, Michael," Lorca barks quickly. He grabs her arm and pulls her to face Taylor, who's crying less now but has crumpled to the floor. He leaves Michael, pulls Taylor up to her feet.

"You have family?" he whispers in her ear as she struggles against him. Taylor can't speak, but struggles even more. "They will be looked after, I SWEAR IT," he whispers on. "They will be safe, and they will not starve. No one will know. But you have to stand up. You have to do this. Do you understand me?" Taylor looks at him and now there is a gleam of courage in her eyes.

Lorca returns to Michael, whispers to her now. "This was always going to happen, Michael. Sooner or later, there would have been someone standing in your way. Remember what you've learned."

He stands in front of her so Taylor cannot see, carefully pulls her forward closer to him and Taylor. He presses two fingers to Michael's chest, just under her sternum. "Instant kill. The best thing you can do for her now is to do it quick, so she doesn't see it coming." She is staring at his chest, but he knows she's listened by the way she swallows.

He mouthes a countdown, steps aside quickly. Michael lunges forward with a shout, driving Taylor back with one hand on her throat; the officer instinctively grabs her wrist, leaving her chest open. Her back smacks against the wall; before the air has left her lungs, she lets out a gurgled cry.

The knife is so sharp that it stays in Michael's hand as Taylor falls to the ground again. Blood pools around her but looks like carelessly spilled water on the dark red carpet under their feet. Michael drops to her knees and vomits. Lorca takes a breath of relief.

Eventually Michael stumbles to her feet and recovers some kind of composure. She wipes the blade on her trouser leg then offers it back to the Emperor, bowing deeply.

"Thank you, Michael. Captain Lorca, please escort her to an Agony booth. Five minutes should do it. No one else need see it."

"Your Majesty, surely – "

Georgiou slaps him, making Michael jump. "You do not have the excuse of being a child, Captain. Cleaning up the mess is not punishment. How could it be?"

He bows to her, then indicates that Michael should follow him.

"When you're done, Captain, return to me. We have much to discuss."

Michael begins to stumble as they head down towards the turbolift. She's pale, shaking. He doubts it's about the agonisers because until you've been in them you cannot possibly imagine how bad they are. He puts an arm around her back, lifts her up so she can hold on to him. He has to breathe to ease the pain from his ribs.

They don't speak. At the agoniser room, he sends away the guards and the operator. Michael shakes off his help and steps into the booth herself.

 _That's my girl._

He puts it on the lowest setting. Even so, it's the longest five minutes of his life, because he makes himself look at her. Face the consequences.

Afterwards Lorca waits for her to stop retching before taking her in his arms and carrying her back to her quarters. He has to change her vomit-splattered top, then takes off her shoes and socks. He tucks her under her sheets and gets some hot, sweet tea from the replicator. It's not easy to get her to drink it, as she's lying down and shaking with shock. But what Michael manages to swallow works its magic because she begins to talk.

"It's not fair. It wasn't her fault."

"It doesn't matter."

"How can you say that?"

"The only thing that matters is the Empire."

"You mean the Emperor."

"They are one and the same," he snaps. "How can you be so smart and yet so fucking stupid, Michael? You've studied enough history- reality - not the fairy tales of people who'd barely invented the wheel! Before the Empire there was chaos and darkness. And every time someone's thought they could do a better job than the Emperor, death followed. Countless deaths. Thousands of Taylors. Oh yeah, you're smart, Michael. But you've got a lot to learn yet."

"Just because... things are as they are, doesn't meant that's how they should be."

Lorca slams the cup of tea on her bedside table and stands up. "Stop, Michael. STOP. I don't want to hear it."

"Don't you want to know... what's so terrifying to the Emperor that... almost no one is allowed to know about it?" Of course he's curious. But if it's that dangerous, he doesn't want to know, either. "Do you want... to know something funny?"

"Yeah, right now, pretty badly."

"One of the books of stories. From the Bible. There were two... called archangels... and they are God's right and left hands. One of them... leads God's armies and he's called Michael. The other... carries out his will, takes his messages to the human race, and he's called Gabriel."

"There is no God."

"No. But there is... the Emperor..." She's fading, either falling asleep or passing out. "It's like you said... Captain Lorca. People... don't last. Ideas do." Her eyes flutter shut. "A... Apple."

Nuts seems more appropriate.

"What game are you playing, Gabriel?"

"No game, Your Majesty. I have not been here, as you know. And if I may remind you, I am not her only teacher."

Georgiou sits at her desk, staring at Taylor's corpse. He wonders why she's not called for its disposal.

"This is not the first time she is testing my will. She seems to believe she has a right to my throne already." She scoffs. "We've received intelligence that the Cardassians have been arming the Bajorans. That part of the quadrant may be far from Earth but if we lose one system, it will grant the Rebels more space to regroup and organise. I want you to take Michael with you."

"With me? Your Majesty, if I take her into battle, I cannot guarantee her safety -"

"She needs to learn that everything costs and that the currency is pain. And this time you _will_ be her only teacher." Georgiou seems finished so he salutes her and moves to go. "One more thing, Captain." She tilts her head towards Taylor. "You need to clean up your mess, too."

There's the reason, he thinks. He nods, picks up the body and flings it over his shoulders.

Disposing of Taylor doesn't take that long, and he's actually glad to do it because it means he can ensure the body is kept for her relatives to bury as they see fit. But it takes long enough that he is nearing agony when he gets to the medical bay. There is a bit of fussing initially when his hobbling leads them to believe the blood on his uniform is his, and then silence and swift treatment follow his assurance that it belongs to someone else.

In his quarters at last, Lorca has never felt happier about being on his own. He sheds and throws away his dirty clothes, steps in the shower. It's only late afternoon here but he's exhausted. He's about to lie down in his bed when a flashing PADD on his desk attracts his attention.

With a sigh he stands and fetches it. His first attempt at inputting his password doesn't work, so he tries again. When that doesn't work he tries a thumb print. It doesn't work, either. Then he realises it's not his PADD, because his is still in his bag.

He sits at his desk, and that's when he notices the apple there. Lorca frowns, then -

"Ah, for fuck's sake, Michael."

He quickly types in "apple." The PADD unlocks and a box appears on the screen.

 _This file is encrypted. Decrypt now?_


	5. Chapter 5 FIELD TRIP

**V. Field Trip**

Lorca never looks at the files. Instead, he downloads them onto a memory chip small enough to fit inside his badge and destroys the PADD. The following day he has to return to his ship and convinces the Emperor that Michael should only follow when she is completely recovered (even a short time in an agony booth can leave you heaving and shaking for up to a few days), because it would hardly inspire respect for her if she arrived aboard stumbling around like a drunkard.

When she joins him on-board the Burnan, he looks for signs of weakness or discomfort, but she stands as tall as ever in his ready-room, clearly recovered. Her hair is short and smooth now, making her look slightly older. Lorca briefs her on their mission and what is expected of her, but he can tell by the way she looks at him that she's searching him, too.

He doesn't conduct anything other than business in his ready-room, just in case. So instead he decides to walk her part of the way to the landing bay for her first tasks.

"I didn't look at the files, Michael," he tells her as they head down a slightly louder corridor. "And that's the last time we'll ever talk about them. Understood?"

"Yes, sir."

He didn't ask for this duty, to be responsible for this girl. Michael is fast approaching the age when she will be officially considered responsible for all her actions - when, if he was her father, he could wash his hands off her and all she does. But it doesn't work like that, and Georgiou didn't have to remind him. Anyway, the law is an ass. No matter what it might say, Michael is still just a kid. A brilliant mind, a tough spirit, but still just a kid.

She looks at him in the eye as he leaves her at a turbolift. Her gaze is blank, carefully respectful. Lorca has been asking himself almost incessantly why Michael sent him that PADD. Now suddenly he wonders whether it was some kind of test. If it was, he suspects he has failed.

"To the finest crew of this fine people!" Lorca shouts, brandishing his glass in the air. "Long live the Empire!"

"LONG LIVE THE EMPIRE!"

Raucous cheers follow, almost instantly drowned out by loud, thumping music as his crew – or rather those not on duty – begin to dance, mingle and laugh around him. It has been a punishing week, taking the offensive to the ground and finally sending the Bajorans running from the small moon they'd thought would escape the ISS Burnan's attention. They had buried themselves deep underground and shielded themselves, so that bombardment from space was ineffective. Lorca has managed to lose fewer people than he feared, too, so to him this counts as an even more satisfying win. A burst of laughter, clear and sharp, catches his ear above the din somewhere to his right and he sees Michael putting an arm around Lieutenant Shen's neck – for what purpose he has no idea, but the two other crewmen with them are laughing, too. In spite of Georgiou's orders, Lorca hasn't sent her along on the ground assault because she quite simply lacks the necessary infantry training, but he has sent her with the medical team once the land was confirmed theirs. From what the doc said, she performed brilliantly: cool under pressure, unfazed by fear – either hers or other people's.

It might have surprised the older man but it does not surprise Lorca, just as it does not surprise him that she has already gained respect among a lot of the crew. It is not entirely uncommon for teenagers to sign up for service on an Imperial war ship because most people lack the position and influence to enter the Imperial Fleet Academy. If you could not sit the exams and tests, you could simply enlist and climb the ranks the slower way. Lorca had narrowly escaped that fate and had often thanked his stars because those who joined the Fleet that way faced bullying and exploitation that could easily destroy the strongest individuals. As the Emperor's daughter, Michael was never going to face the same treatment, but she has a few years of martial arts training to deal with the couple of people who think she should. Broken arms and jaws later, no one else tries and she gets the chance to earn everyone else's respect before she is crushed. He wonders, not for the first time, about the waste of people and potential.

An Ensign taps him on the shoulder, indicates the bridge is trying to contact him. Lorca exits the mess hall for the nearest comm station.

"Lorca to the bridge."

"Captain, the Aries is here and Admiral Cornwell will be boarding in a few minutes."

Katrina was here? He frowns. What fault could the Emperor be finding with him now? "Acknowledged. Please invite her to be transported directly to my ready room."

He finds her and her bodyguard waiting for him when he gets there. She dismisses her escort and the doors have barely slipped shut when he speaks.

"What are you doing here, Kat? What's going on?"

She sighs and raises her hands in a gesture of conciliation. "You know how it is. You have done very well here, you don't have to worry about that, but the Emperor is concerned you might over-reach, lose the ground we've gained."

Lorca grunts disdainfully. What the Emperor is concerned about is Lorca becoming too popular, too successful, and taking that popularity and success back home. Still, something bothers him. "Why send you, Admiral, to the furthest edge of our Empire? Aren't you above being a messenger these days?"

"I offered to come. I thought you'd rather have me around - a friend - than the alternative, which would most likely not be friendly."

She is his only friend so it is in fact a certainty. Everyone else is at best a rival, at worst an enemy. He sighs. "Yeah, you're right. Sorry – and thanks. How long are you staying?"

"A few weeks. I can provide further tactical support, and the Emperor has asked me to look into the feasibility of either entering Cardassian space, or negotiating with them. Possibly both."

"A show of force, something to let them know we don't fuck around?"

"Like I said – you know how it is." Katrina tilts her head, leans back against his table. "Are you ok? Paranoia's not your style."

He wonders how much to tell her (you always have to wonder) but he needs a different pair of eyes anyway. "I thought maybe you were sent to check up on Michael."

"In what way?"

"I think Georgiou worries I'm turning Michael against her. Or giving her ideas above her station."

She raises an eyebrow. "Her station's pretty high as it is."

"You'd think. But one time, not long after she'd adopted Michael, the Emperor said something I didn't get at the time. She said that Michael was easy to teach, but it didn't mean she learned as easily. Damn, do I get it now."

"So what are you saying?"

"Honestly? I have no idea. Maybe she's just being a teenage girl, and I couldn't know less about that."

"The arrogance of youth?"

"Let's hope so." Hope? Is that really what he was reduced to? He's got nothing else when it comes to Michael; he can't figure her out anymore and maybe he was a Kelpian in a previous life, because the back of his neck tingles with everything he doesn't know about her. The unknown is the only thing that scares him.

That tingle's right there again when his door chime rings off and he's told Michael has come up to see him. She doesn't look surprised at all to see Katrina there.

"Admiral Cornwell," she salutes smartly. "I'm sorry to interrupt, Captain, but word got downstairs that the Admiral has boarded. I'm sure a few words of encouragement from her would be welcome by all."

Lorca senses rather than sees Katrina's eyes widen. "And since when are you this ship's pastoral care officer?"

"Since no one else will dare."

He grits his teeth, still in a bad mood about Katrina's arrival and what it means, and is about to dismiss her when Katrina speaks up. "That's a fine idea. Lead the way, Cadet Burnham."

"How exactly did word get downstairs about Admiral Cornwell's arrival?" he asks Michael on the way to the turbolift.

"Jeffries tubes, I think. A lot of noise gets carried down those."

Lorca has to keep himself from smirking. "Ship's comedian as well now. Have you been drinking, Michael?"

"No, sir. For that would be against the rules."

He rolls his eyes. Her cheeks are slightly flushed, her gaze fractionally cloudy. She's been drinking, because as informal as their relationship may be, she wouldn't have dared the quip in front of another officer otherwise.

There is a lot less dancing and a lot more talking when they reach the mess hall, and the body language is tense when the music gets turned off and the Admiral's presence is acknowledged. They must be fearing something similar to Lorca, because ship's crews have been known to bear collective punishment for any failure on the part of their captain.

Cornwell climbs up on a table, delivers a short speech relaying the Emperor's congratulations on a job well done – orders her own crew to beam straight to the mess hall a few kegs of real, fresh beer. There is a roar of approval, the music comes back on and the party resumes. Whatever Michael has or has not been imbibing, Lorca has to admit her idea (he has no doubt it was her idea alone) was a good one.

Lorca fetches two glasses of Katrina's beer when it arrives, and he and Katrina stick around until both have finished their drinks. On their way out, Michael runs up to them again.

"Captain, may I request a moment with Admiral Cornwell?"

She was a lucky girl, being the Emperor's daughter. If she had been a regular cadet, a strict captain might have sent her to an agony booth as an answer to such an audacious request.

"That's up to Admiral Cornwell."

Katrina doesn't look pleased about that, and Lorca doesn't understand why. "Of course, Cadet."

"I have to check on the bridge. You can have my quarters, I will meet you there afterwards." He quickly unlocks his door from a computer panel and signals to his guard to escort Katrina and Michael there.

Given Katrina's displeasure, Lorca feels the need to hurry and rescue her from whatever Michael is up to as quickly as possible. He manages to be quick enough to be surprised to find Michael gone when he reaches his quarters.

Katrina is sitting on his couch, tumbler of scotch in hand, looking thoughtful. "Cadet Burnham wishes to transfer to my ship for a while."

That damn tingle returns. And something else, too. Something that feels like failure again. He grabs a tumbler, pours his own drink and drinks it in one gulp.

"Did she say why?"

She notices the trace of anger in his voice. "She wants the patronage of a higher ranking officer. That's not unusual."

"The only reason she got five minutes of your time today is because she's the Emperor's daughter. What other patronage do you need?"

"The Emperor needs Michael to make her way up by herself as much as possible. It's political common sense and the best way to ensure there is enough respect for that girl to allow her a chance at the reins of the Empire when the time comes. But it would be pointless to be the Emperor if the position granted you no privilege." Katrina stands up and joins Lorca by the scotch bottle, although she doesn't get herself any more. "To be frank, I could do with Michael's patronage myself. I've managed to piss off a couple of people already on the Council and now I've got their lackeys yelping at my heels. I could do with some breathing space so I can work on the rest of our wondrous leaders."

"And if you can't bring them over to your side?"

"I'll unsheathe that sword when I come to that. You know me – better the devil you know."

Lorca nods. She'd climbed the ranks even faster than him, thanks to an ability to deal with people around her as though they were chess pieces. Sacrificing some you may not expect, moving those you may not.

"Look, it's fine by me. But I don't know how Georgiou is going to feel about it."

"Let's give it a week, low key transfer. I don't think she'll hear it from Michael, or that anyone will question it."

"Fine. You're gonna owe me for that one, Kat."

He's thinking another favour of some kind down the line, but he parks that thought for later when Katrina steps closer to him and slips a finger under his breast plate, sliding it towards the hooks that keep it in place.

"I can start by saying thank you. How would that be, Gabriel?"

Lorca steadies her hand with his own. "Unnecessary."

She looks a little sad and worn-out, then. "I know. Just needed the excuse, I guess."

"That's unnecessary, too."

"I've still got it, huh?"

He doesn't answer, simply leans forward and kisses her. There's no point asking her why now, after so long; he can sense she's holding something back from him but then he isn't prepared to tell her everything, either. Her hand returns to her previous task, until they both decide it's much faster if they remove their own clothes, or rather as much of their clothes as required.

Being with Katrina has always been fun and easy but today it's mostly quick and loud, the kind of sex he imagines long-married couple can have, because they know their lover's body and all the shortcuts, and the intimacy feels comfortable.

As she comes down from her climax, she suddenly laughs, making Lorca look up from where he was tending to her.

"I just had this terrifying thought," she explains, "that Michael was going to make it a hat trick and turn up before we were done."

He chuckles, but thoughts of Michael are not welcome. Maybe spending time with Katrina is just what the girl needs. He said so himself, he knows nothing about teenage girls. He doesn't want to learn, either.


	6. Chapter 6 TACTICAL MANEUVERS

**Some depiction of battle injuries and use of the F-word in this one. Many thanks to my beta Vladnyrki.**

 **VI. Tactical Maneuvers**

Two weeks. Two weeks before they discover that the Cardassians don't fuck around, either. Two weeks is all it takes before the whole of the Empire finds out that Michael has been aboard the _Aries_ , when she single-handedly ends a battle that's going very badly and saves the _Buran_ and all who sail in her.

As planned, Lorca and Katrina spend time making overtures to the Cardassians, trying to start preliminary talks to define a border between the Cardassian and Terran Empires. He thinks it's too early for this – they don't know nearly enough about the Cardassians and what makes them tick; no one does. Katrina thinks that this culture of secrecy means they probably view all outsiders as a threat, which is something both empires have in common. Lorca agrees, and then it turns out that the Cardassians like a decisive show of force as well. Do they care that much about Bajor, or is it just an excuse to make a point? Either way, talks begin to break down as Katrina expresses interest in Bajor as an outpost for the Empire, the Cardassians claiming the planet falls within their sphere of influence and lies too close to Cardassian borders to be left to anyone else. Katrina points out the lack of defined borders in that area of space, and so the Cardassians decide to draw them more definitely. Their ultimatum requires all Terran vessels, civilian and military, to leave Bajoran space within one Terran daily cycle. Neither Katrina nor Lorca need to seek authorisation from the Emperor to stay put.

Ten minutes after they have overstayed their welcome, the Cardassians fire on the _Aries_.

Lorca is used to the way adrenaline warps any sense of time, but he's pretty sure that's not why he feels they are losing the battle shockingly fast. The Cardassians have brought three battleships and half a dozen small frigates, which more than makes up for the comparative lack of manoeuvrability of the battleships. Against those, only Lorca's _Buran_ and Katrina's _Aries_ (a heavy cruiser) are anywhere of a match – the rest of the Terran forces are made up of several patrol and transport ships, none of which are suited to a sustained engagement. The transport ships, with their superior shielding capabilities, have been trying to take as much fire from the frigates as possible but three have already been destroyed and the last two have been driven away from the _Buran_ ; the patrol ships are fast, nimble and fairly well-armed but in this battle Lorca compares their impact to the distraction of an angry bee. Still, it's better than nothing, especially when nothing is likely to be what they could be left with very soon, and he can't help thinking that the Cardassians must have gravely underestimated them if all they brought were three battleships when they could have easily called many more, being so much closer to their space than the Terrans are to theirs.

"INCOMING TORPEDO OFF THE –"

Lieutenant Jensen, manning the sensors and radar station, is drowned out by the torpedo hitting its target. The ship tilts, judders and howls under the impact. The communications station behind Lorca blows out and he is thrown forward by a great weight landing on his back. Breath knocked out of him, head ringing from hitting the hard floor, Lorca struggles to gather himself. Before he can wonder what pinned him down, the weight is lifted off him and he feels a different kind of pressure, that of hands pinning his arms and legs to the floor.

"Hold still, Captain, I need to check you for back or spinal injuries." That's Manfredi, the bridge medic, and Lorca manages to comply, even as everything in his body is screaming out to fight. He can't hear the tweaks and bleeps of the diagnostic tricorder over the noises of the battle but he is suddenly released and helped to his feet. Without asking for permission, Manfredi injects him with something that instantly dulls the stabbing pain on the side of his face and that's enough for Lorca.

"You've broken your nose and cheekbone, Captain –" Manfredi protests.

"You can make me handsome later if we survive this battle, Medic. STATUS REPORT NOW!"

Out of the corner of his eye, he spots Manfredi dragging away what landed on him – not part of the bridge, but Lieutenant Kowalski, who was manning Communications. Shards of glass and metal have shredded her upper body, nearly severing her left arm at the shoulder; her face and head are smouldering. The smell of blood and burnt flesh is everywhere and retching and vomiting echo around the bridge. He has to bark for a status report again, because that station is only one along from Communications and its officer has been badly hurt by the explosion that killed Kowalski.

"Shields are at thirty per cent! Long-range communications and targeting systems are offline! Hull breach on levels 4 through to 7! Impulse engines are down."

 _FUCK._ "Engineering, this is the Bridge –"

"Working on it, Ca – you'll have the – but there's " The static becomes a shriek and the line dies.

"Thrusters have just come back online, Captain!" his Helmsman suddenly shouts out.

Lorca breathes out – he would have happily kissed his engineer right now, and damned be the consequences. The man wasn't the best technically that Lorca could have had but he was smart in all the right ways. Now that they had the thrusters back, they could move a little.

"Until we have the targeting system back online, we're gonna do this the old-fashioned way. Evasive pattern delta 3 – firing all phasers so we know what they were left aiming at!"

"Aye, Captain!"

"Status on the _Aries_?"

"Turning about towards us, Captain. They have shaken off the battleships for now but are engaging with two Cardassian frigates."

The last thing Lorca needs is to end up with more fire coming towards him but Katrina must realise the dire situation the _Buran_ is in. He doubts she'll make it to the corner of the battlefield in time.

 _At least Michael is safer on that ship_.

He doesn't know where the thought has come from, nor the grip of regret that their last conversation had been rather strained. He sits back on his chair, watches the bright arcs of deadly light striking out towards the Cardassian battleship. They are too close and their shields too weak to risk firing their photonic torpedoes, a weakness of those weapons that the Cardassians wasted no time in working out for themselves, taking the fight close to the _Buran_ and Lorca's only real advantage over them away from him.

"We've got the targeting angles calculated, Captain – sending to your station."

Lorca stares at the numbers. They would have to try now, before any more structural damage to the hull made it impossible. "Status on the inertia dampers?"

"Fully functioning."

"Okay. Let's take this baby dancing. Helm, turn us over and get us under the belly of that fucking beast. Tactical, get ready to fire on my signal."

His crew knows better than to question him, or express any doubt that they could do what is requested of them. Helm fires the thrusters at full force, spinning the battlefield on their screen upside down, slipping them towards the underside of the Cardassian battleship.

"The Cardassians are moving, sir –"

Lorca smirks: he's made them blink without even trying. "Fire all phasers."

They are much closer to the battleship now and the phaser rays hitting their enemies' shield is like watching fireworks and they can see they've made a significant hit. There's barely the time to take some satisfaction in the strike before Lorca realises that the flight or fight response isn't a binary thing when you've got friends with you. Just as the battleship reels away from the _Buran_ , a Cardassian frigate comes bearing down on them suddenly. Only their proximity to the battleship and the unpredictability of their movements saves them from something more powerful than phasers. But it's enough to make Lorca's stomach roil as the _Buran_ is hit across its own underbelly and loses three thrusters, enough to leave them drifting almost out of control.

"Helm, keep us as close as you can to the battleship. Redirect shields to our starboard side, and keep 'em on our exposed parts. I need to know what's happening in Engineering, dammit!"

An Ensign volunteers to go down and find out and report back; the Bridge crew sets to work frantically on communications through the ship and with the _Aries_ , as well as the targeting systems, but Lorca doubts he's bought them enough time to give them either a fighting chance, or one to withdraw. If they can get their warp engines back online, they might be able to put enough distance between them and the Cardassians to fire their torpedoes safely - and that's their only chance to inflict some real damage. There won't be much point escaping death here only to meet it back home when they return without a scalp.

"Captain!" Jensen shouts. "The _Aries_ – they're releasing escape pods – three so far –"

It can't be. "Status on the _Aries_?"

"They are still moving towards us – one Cardassian frigate is adrift –"

It doesn't make any sense, although some mechanical malfunction is possible. There's no time for Lorca to ask questions. The Cardassians seem to get their nerves back. They begin to turn about – the _Buran_ tries to follow but that only attracts more fire from the frigate, and it's as though they are hanging on a cliff's edge with their fingertips only to find someone stamping on their hands.

"Shields at 15%! Captain, I don't think they'll survive another pass –"

"We have some short-range comms back on, Captain –"

"I need Admiral Cornwell NOW, I don't give a shit if you have to use smoke signals –"

"The Cardassians have us on lock –"

Their underside gets hit again, far too close to the lower nacelle, and they lose their shields and part of the hull. The _Buran_ shudders with a great wounded shriek as metal is ripped apart by beams of light.

"We have lost all thrusters, Captain!"

Dead in the water. Dead, full stop. Is there any point in telling his crew to abandon ship? Something tells him the Cardassians don't treat their prisoners of war with any great consideration. Best case scenario, the survivors are used as hostages or pawns, held to some kind of ransom, which the Emperor will never pay. Except maybe for Michael, but he's not even sure then.

Lorca grits his teeth, waiting to hear that the frigate is coming around again to finish them. When his crewman tells him the frigate is not returning, it's very quickly clear why – the battleship is turning, intent on claiming the kill.

 _How petty_.

"Captain, we are being hailed from one of the _Aries_ ' escape pods!"

"Tell 'em we will call them back –"

"It's – it's Cadet Burnham, sir."

"Onscreen –"

He has no idea what he was expecting, really, but what he gets definitely isn't it, either. Michael's face fills the screen through statics and crackles, and she's clearly wearing an EV suit.

"WHAT THE HELL, MICHAEL –"

"It's nice to see you, too, sir. I need some covering fire, if you can still supply it."

"Covering fire? Who for?"

"Me, sir. The Cardassians are going to notice I'm getting close and I'm gonna need to eject. If you fire, they will be too busy paying attention to that to notice me."

He looks to Jensen. "Her escape pod is on a direct trajectory towards the battleship, sir," he confirms.

"I ask you again, Michael, what the HELL are you doing?"

"Going to kick some Cardassian ass, sir. Can you track me at all? I will need beaming on board the _Buran_ once I've planted the device."

"We only have limited transporter range, Captain," Jensen warns.

"Then I guess I'll probably die. Burnham out."

"Michael? Michael, come back on –" He spins around, cursing his slow thinking. "Jensen, beam her back here right now –"

"I can't, sir – I'm still trying to get a lock on her –"

"Helm, can you get us closer?"

"No, Captain, we don't have the thrusters for it, but I can move us back a bit – might lessen interference and help us get a lock on her."

"Do it. Can we get any visual on her?"

"Trying, Captain."

There is the spit and fizz of electricity from damaged stations and the deep thrumming moans of structural damage but the Bridge is otherwise silent, eyes fixed on the viewscreen as images jerk and rock, Jensen manually looking for Michael's escape pod. Then, after what seems an eternity, the external cameras lock on her pod just as she ejects from it. They watch her flying through debris, her thruster pack at full speed, leaving a trail behind that makes her look briefly like a shooting star.

She was going to get crushed against the Cardassian shields.

Lorca feels his mind go blank, his stomach drop, unable to understand what he's watching. But just as he expects her to splatter across the side of the battleship, she banks and dives under its belly, not unlike the _Buran_ did earlier, and disappears.

"Where is she gone? Jensen, _WHERE IS SHE GONE_?"

"I don't know, sir –" he stammers. "I was just about to lock on her, but without visuals, I can't right now –"

" _Buran! This is Cadet Burnham! Do you copy?_ "

Lorca practically leaps closer to the viewscreen, as though he could spot her better in the twilight of space than his ship's lenses. Only her voice is coming through to them. "Michael, you have to turn back towards us or we can't beam you back –"

" _Buran, I don't know if you can hear me. I'm heading back towards you but you need to put some distance between you and the Cardassians now – any shield you've got left needs to go to your port side – they're about to-"_

And then, suddenly but in what feels like slow-motion, the Cardassian battleship on the screen shudders then blows apart at the back, and it gets hurled upside down and away from the _Buran_. A moment later the shockwave hits the _Buran_ – faster than debris from the Cardassian ship,fortunately, which Lorca's ship is in a poor condition to withstand.

"I'VE GOT HER, CAPTAIN, I'VE GOT CADET BURNHAM –"

Jensen doesn't want for instructions from Lorca. Michael materialises on the bridge in a shower of golden droplets, halfway through a spin, and falls heavily to the floor, face first. There's the crack of glass breaking, and two crewmen rush forward to lift her up. She's heaving, her face is bleeding , but the light at the back of the helmet puts a halo around her head. In the semi-darkness of the bridge, she looks like an angel - and in her armour-like EV suit, like an angel tasked with slaying a dragon.

 _Magnificent_.

Lorca can't look away. He wants to remember everything about this moment but doesn't know why. The girl smiles faintly at him, then her eyes flutter shut and her body slumps.

He stiffens, notices his crew is as stunned as he is. "Manfredi! Get her to sickbay, now. Jensen, keep up the good work and tell me what's happening out there." It's an effort to move his eyes away from Michael, to keep himself on the bridge.

"The _Aries_ is hailing us, Captain."

"On screen."

Katrina's face appears, flushed and sweaty from battle. "Captain Lorca, do you have Cadet Burnham?"

"We have, Admiral."

She nods, her jaw tensing in what he recognises as relief. "I have offered the Cardassians a ceasefire, and they have accepted. Get your injuries looked at then get aboard the _Aries_. We have much to discuss. You and your crew have performed admirably today, you should be proud. Long live the Empire!"

Lorca doesn't have to be told twice. He makes his way to Sick Bay, where Manfredi can finally fix his face, but he can't see where Michael is resting and has to make do with the doc assuring him she is fine apart from a mild concussion and a couple of broken ribs.

He doesn't want to distract his crew from any non-essential work, and since the _Aries_ ' transporter system was disabled during the battle, he chooses to use a shuttle to make his way to Katrina.

He doesn't really care about the details of what happens next with the Cardassians. Their bout has ended in something of a draw so another round of negotiations beckons. He still thinks it would be stupid to start a war so far out on the fringes of the Empire; maybe the Emperor will be satisfied with Cardassian guarantees when it comes to the Bajorans. In any case that's for Katrina to worry about right now, not him. So he wastes no time in asking the questions he does want the answers to.

"What did Michael do, Katrina?"

She sighs. "Over the last two weeks, she spent most of her time studying the Cardassian ships and what data we were able to gather about them. By studying energy readings, she theorised that Cardassians might power their shields from individual, localised power sources rather than a single one as we do. It means more powerful shields but also that they can't readily redistribute them if they need to. She was tracking energy readings off your friend and realised they had probably lost their shield in a particular section at the back."

That explained why they had responded so fast to Lorca's manoeuvre. And what Michael had done. "She flew some kind of bomb into that battleship, didn't she?"

Katrina nods. "It stands to reason that the flight deck would be the least protected."

"Stands to reason? _Probably_ lost their shield?" He's shouting and he hates that he is, but he can't stop himself. "She's fourteen years-old, Katrina!"

"She turned fifteen last week. We're friends, Gabriel, but you need to calm down. Don't make me pull rank on you."

"You want to pull rank on me? Let's see you try that with the Emperor." He runs his hands over his face. "When she finds out – Jesus, what were you thinking?"

She snorts. " _I_ wasn't thinking anything. Michael did it all by herself." He stares at her. "Oh she asked for permission first, explained her plan very clearly. Permission was denied, in no uncertain terms." He says nothing for a bit, trying to collect his thoughts, so she adds, "I don't think she would have done it for anyone else, you know."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"She's a fifteen year-old girl. You're an attractive man, a leader. You do the maths." Lorca waves a dismissive hand in the air. "You need to take this seriously, Gabriel. You need to take _her_ seriously."

"I was the one who warned you about her. I know very well she's crazy."

"No. You see, that's the thing. I don't think she's crazy. She just doesn't fear what other people fear."

Less than twelve hours later, Lorca is woken up by a call from the Bridge: Emperor Georgiou wishes to speak with him. He drags himself out of bed with some difficulty (it may have been just his face that got broken but his body feels pretty bruised, too), spends less than a minute in the sonic shower and shaves in the turbolift to his ready room, trying to think of reasons to give Georgiou for Michael being on Katrina's ship. He realises as he steps out that he never agreed on a story with her, and has no idea what Michael has been telling her mother.

He takes a deep breath then kneels down before activating the holoprojector. Georgiou appears, twice her normal size, as is the point of the device. Her anger doesn't need amplifying, it's written all over her face.

"How can I serve you, Your Majesty?"

"By giving me an explanation," she states, and he swears inwardly. "And you can look at me as you do so."

He raises his head. "An explanation for what, Your Majesty?"

"For Michael's actions yesterday. For her presence on Cornwell's ship."

"Michael takes after her mother, Your Majesty. She saw a chance to turn the battle in our favour and she took it."

Georgiou practically snarls at him. "Do not debase yourself with useless flattery, Lorca, and do not push my patience"

"It's the truth. Michael's actions were her own."

"Why was she on Cornwell's ship?"

He remembers Katrina's words. "I thought she could benefit from getting to know a higher ranking officer. She will need the support and confidence of your forces."

"Strange. You and Admiral Cornwell are close, are you not?" Lorca doesn't answer, but that's an answer in itself, of course. "I thought she would have told you."

Georgiou hasn't given him leave to rise but he stands anyway. "Told me what, Your Majesty?"

"You know, I'm sure, the Picards?"

"I do." The Picards are one of the older patrician clans and almost the only one that carries no military tradition. Instead their influence and power stems mostly from trade and money.

"Edouard Picard has a daughter, Isabelle." Georgiou's expression changes to one of distaste. "Katrina and Isabelle were lovers, it seems."

Lorca knows perfectly well that Georgiou has had plenty of female lovers herself. He guesses that she's mostly disturbed because the relationship was not casual.

"You know this how?"

"Picard came to me with evidence. I had it checked, it was genuine. He wanted Cornwell's head - the Bajoran sector was the best alternative I could think of. Cornwell is too good to lose over something as ridiculous as this but I needed her to keep a low profile to appease Picard."

"The Cardassians fired first, Your Majesty. And the glory of the Empire is more important than a shopkeeper's pride."

"Without a doubt. But Michael's presence on her ship is more problematic. She is my representative. Suddenly Cornwell's banishment becomes a slap in Picard's face."

Lorca understand now what Katrina was hiding from him. He's grateful that she tried to keep him out of her own problems but angry, too that they could have been in each other's life for so long and he had no idea that she felt that way. He wonders whether Michael knew. And if she did, and asked to be on Cornwell's ship, what does that mean?

"You did well in battle, Captain," she continues. "Even if you did have to be rescued by a fourteen year-old girl." Fifteen, he thinks, but doesn't correct her. "Haven't I chosen her well?"

He's tired. Thanks to Georgiou's call he's not had enough sleep, and bitterness rises in his throat as he recalls the Emperor's poor choice of congratulatory words. He's lost 26 men and women and a dozen more have been severely injured, and everyone else is some kind of walking wounded. He doesn't know yet about the patrol and transport ships, or even Katrina's crew.

He should try and get some more sleep, or even to talk to Katrina, but he heads for Sick Bay instead. Michael is awake, sitting up in bed and writing something up on her PADD.

"At ease, Cadet," he tells her as she tries to stand and salute him. She nods her thanks and winces as she adjusts her position again. Her face has been healed and only bears the faintest trace of her injuries but the ribs will remain painful for a few weeks.

"Kick some Cardassian ass, huh? I think you went straight for their balls."

She grins and blushes at the same time; the contrast seems to encapsulate everything that she is at this moment in time, caught between confidence and inexperience, no longer a girl but not yet a woman, either.

Lorca looks around him. The Sick Bay is quiet and Michael has been put at the far end of the room, no doubt due to her status. Still, he activates the privacy shields.

"You're something special, Michael. You really are. And I'm gonna need you to stay alive long enough to become amazing. Do you understand?" She nods, blushing more still. "I can help you do that, but you're going to have to trust me, and the things I tell you. The orders I give you. Will you do that?"

She doesn't reply straight away and he likes that she is taking him seriously. "Yes, I will, Captain."

"Gabriel. When we are not on duty, you can call me Gabriel. You have earned that."

She smiles and her gaze grows serious and earnest, and Lorca is pretty sure he is looking about the same, because there is something... contagious about her. "I will, Gabriel."

"And I should probably call you 'Your Highness' because you've fucking well earned that, too." Michael laughs, and Lorca feels pleased with himself. Then he remembers the other reason he came down to see her. "How did you find your time on Admiral Cornwell's ship?"

"Very instructive. I like her."

"Did you know?"

She blinks. "Know what?"

"The real reason she was assigned to this sector. I'm guessing that's what you discussed with her when you asked to speak to her alone?" Michael bites her lip. "Trust me. Remember?" He realises that it's a ridiculous thing to ask in the world they live in. But she seems to like that he's asked her.

"Yes, I knew. I have my own information channels. I heard before she arrived. I thought my mother might tell me but she didn't."

"Why did you ask to go on her ship? Because you shouldn't be trying to rile your mother. It's too soon after what you did with the files."

"I wasn't trying to rile my mother. I know that Cornwell is not all that popular on the Council. People may not know why she was sent here but they are assuming punishment of some kind." She shrugs.

"I thought if I spent time with her, it might help. To keep her from looking like she was out of favour."

Lorca considers the girl in front of him. So incredibly brave and smart, and he thinks he wouldn't mind serving _her_.

"I thank you for that, Michael. And she probably hasn't told you, but she will be incredibly grateful, too."

Michael looks at him now like _he_ is the naive teenager. "I didn't do it for her."


	7. Chapter 7 RULES OF ENGAGEMENT

Apologies for taking such a long time to update. This is a kind of transitional chapter in the story and for a multitude of boring reasons, I found it really tricky to work out how to get to the next step, which I have down already (although only partially written).

At least it's mega long chapter, so that makes up for it, no? No...? Really? DARN DARN DARNY DARN.

As ever, huge thanks to makimurakaori for the beta and also to both her and AGDoren for advice and patient ears when I was whinging on about my writer's block.

Lots of bad language here.

 **VII. Rules of Engagement**

Lorca watches her get her dues. In the throne room of the _Charon_ , Michael is awarded the 50 Kills Medal (its youngest recipient ever) and officially anointed as Emperor Georgiou's heir. She receives a new suit of armour that seems too big for her but she wears it well. Georgiou looks upon her with more pride than he's ever seen before and he's glad. Katrina has stayed behind to negotiate with the Cardassians and to avoid further ire from the Picards, so Lorca has to smirk at them on his own, doubly so when they bow low before Michael and she spares him a quick amused glance.

Afterwards he accompanies the Emperor and the Princess on a tour of the outer colonies, Georgiou being keen to remind Terrans further away from home of the might of Starfleet and its officers, and how necessary they are to the continuing survival of these new territories. Their last stop is Tarsus IV, a colony at the far edge of the Alpha Quadrant. A class-M planet, it was gifted to veterans of the war with the Romulans one hundred years previously, and since then has become home to many veterans of other conflicts; he used to joke with Katrina about retiring there together.

The colony's main settlement New Anchorage has a spaceport planet-side but it was built to accommodate colony supply ships, not combat-class ones and let alone anything approaching the size of the _Charon_. Informed that magnetic fields are currently fluctuating too much for safe beaming on and off the planet, they take a shuttle to the surface. As its doors slide open, an endearingly child-like look of delight comes over Michael's face. He forgets that she has not spent much time on any kind of solid ground since her adoption and even less so since she joined him on the _Buran_. As for her life before, it had also been spent travelling with her parents, both scientists; she had spent a year as a prisoner of the rebels and his understanding was that the base she had been rescued from had been mostly underground.

Ah, hell. The sight that greets him is enough to make him seriously consider early 've landed on the outskirts of the city, which rises behind them, but everywhere else the land is a sea on fire: hills covered in trees of red and gold leaves, undulating ever higher towards a mountain range in the distance. The grass below their feet is a deep, swaying green, the flowers colourful and fragrant, messily dotted around them as they usually do when left to do what they will. Not far from the landing pad, he can hear water flowing over rocks. The air is cool, with a clean sharpness like only non-recycled air can have, but the sun is still hot on the skin.

He can feel Michael's eyes on him and they share a grin. He can tell she's itching to run off into the wilderness but she stays put and her expression turns more serious as the colony's representatives step up to greet them.

"Your Majesty, Your Highness." Governor Giselia Ribeiro bows deeply. "Welcome to Tarsus IV. You have bestowed us a great honour."

"And your service honours yourself and the Empire," Georgiou replies.

A Starfleet Marines officer steps forward and bows also. "Long live the Empire! I am Lieutenant Colonel Meizhen Bao. I lead the Marine outpost here. It is indeed an honour to have you and your daughter visit us." He turns and salutes Lorca. "As it is to meet you, Captain Lorca."

Lorca returns the salute, noting Bao's relatively young he's made Lieutenant Colonel already, he might be one to watch.

"Your Majesty, may I introduce you to Council Leader Adrian Kodos?" Ribeiro continues, using her arm to invite her companions forward. "And these are my aides, Balayna Ferasini and Ian Galloway."

Lorca pays little attention to the ordinary-looking men who respectfully bow to them all, and instead begins to wonder immediately about Ferasini. She is not particularly striking (her curly brown hair is worn in a simple ponytail), being pretty rather than beautiful, but something about the spark in her eyes and the curve of her hips in otherwise drab robes intrigue him. He tries a slight smile, which she returns in kind.

The columns of Bao's battalion part before them and they climb aboard the cars waiting to take them into the city - and it is is a wonder to enter it. Not because of impressive architecture - dwellings and workplaces have retained a mostly utilitarian look - but because there is no gradual change from countryside to urban environment. Instead the world outside New Anchorage suddenly disappears as they enter the city limits, as though they had driven into a tunnel. Michael has her gaze fixed outside the window, on the mountain tops that do remain visible above the roofs, while Georgiou listens to Ribeiro and Kodos extol the virtues of their agricultural engineering. Lorca finds the conversation dull and barely comprehensible, which turns his attention to Ferasini, who is sitting opposite him.

"Balayna, wasn't it?" he starts, crossing one leg over his knee.

She looks up from her PADD, laying it down on her lap with her hands clasped over it. "Balayna Ferasini, yes. Miss. What can I do for you, Captain?"

Miss? Well, that's helpful information, and from the way she sits and looks at him it's intended as such. "Miss Ferasini - apologies. All these amazing crops you're growing - do they include things like barley and hop?"

"They do."

"And you have cattle, too?"

"That's correct. One of our more successful recent development is a variety of wheat that provides more nourishment per gram than before, meaning less is required to feed our animals."

"Wonderful. Does that mean you have places that serve beer and steak?"

Her smile broadens. "Yes, we have several such places."

"Any you could recommend?"

"Of course, I would be glad to."

"Great. Maybe take me there tomorrow night?"

Balayna nods. "It would be my pleasure and honor. I will forward you details later."

They reach their destination: the centre of New Anchorage, which features a wide, attractive square dotted with water fountains and trees. The council building boasts a dome in the classical style and stands opposite a large amphitheatre where Georgiou is due to make a speech. Ribeiro claims proudly that it can accommodate up to half the colony's population and as such is the focus of most of the special events and occasions celebrated on Tarsus IV.

Lorca heads first into Georgiou's quarters with two of her bodyguards, as is his duty. The rooms definitely lean towards the handmade and old Earth but someone has tried to make them look more regal in her honour, with mounds of soft furnishings and platters of fruits and sweet delicacies on low, dark tables, and deep and very comfortable-looking leather sofas and armchairs. He does the same with Michael's quarters, in spite of her protests.

"Any Klingons under the bed?" It has become a private joke between them, ever since that night when he'd comforted her after a nightmare.

"None, Princess. Not even dust bunnies."

"Why do you never check my bunk on the _Buran_?"

"Don't need to. Crew knows you. Rightly too terrified to even try a whoopie cushion." He clicks his tongue as she reaches for something that looks like chocolate. "We need to scan first, check for poisons."

Michael predictably rolls her eyes. "Can't I just get you to try a bit of everything, see if you drop dead?"

"When I enlisted in the Fleet, I swore an oath to die for the Empire - not for the Emperor's daughter's sweet tooth."

"Coward."

"That's why I'm still alive."

She laughs. He leaves her guards to get on with the scanning so she can indulge before they reconvene with the Emperor for a briefing about the upcoming events they are to attend; namely her speech that evening, followed by a reception for the colony's ruling elite and other descendants of its early settlers.

The speech Georgiou makes at the amphitheatre is not particularly long - she does not like to talk when it isn't to drive people to action - but her presence on Tarsus IV, so far from the center of the Empire, has clearly surprised and awed most of its people. She is much more at ease later, in the company of veterans (one or two of which she seems to know from her early days of service), and her speech to them is much more lyrical and heartfelt than the one she gave to the civilian crowd. He notices that Kodos in particular listens somewhat raptuously and his applause is enthusiastically directed at the veterans. Lorca finds himself warming a little to the politician: slim, shorter than Lorca, with thinning red hair and overly-groomed facial hair, he'd struck him as your typical big fish in a small pond, the sort that would be least likely to make it anywhere near the front line of a fight, but he had gone to greet the former soldiers first when he had arrived at the reception and many had returned his greetings with what seemed like genuine friendliness. He spends a lot of time talking to Michael but she doesn't seem to mind as far as Lorca can tell.

Georgiou's second speech over, Lorca tries to catch Balayna's eye but she is by Ribeiro's side and flanked by Bao; in different circumstances he would simply walk over and either join the conversation or simply steer her away with him if she was amenable, but he knows of his duties as a guest. Instead he goes to introduce himself to a woman who looks to be in her mid-fifties and who he heard mention the name of a captain he served under early in his career. He ends up talking to her and her little group for a while, trying to map who else they all know. It's an odd kind of party, somewhat stilted - the very few parties he has gone to over the years have been grand affairs on the _Charon_ , with copious amounts of all kinds of exotic dishes and drinks from all over the Empire, often different types of entertainments, and more politicking than should be going on given the state of inebriation that guests quickly reach. Surprisingly, Georgiou seems to be enjoying herself and the group she is talking to (Ribeiro and her Council members) gradually seem to relax a little in her intimidating presence. Still, she excuses herself early, catching his eye as she does so to direct his attention towards Michael and Kodos, still deep in conversation near the balcony. With a sigh, he excuses himself and joins them.

"Captain Lorca," Kodos greets him jovially.

"Councilman," Lorca nods.

"We have an heretic here, Captain," Michael mock-whispers.

Kodos chuckles. "I am anything but!"

"Councilman Kodos believes there are things we can learn from non-Terrans. Even _Klingons_."

"We are only as great as our strongest enemy, Your Highness. The Klingons are savages but they are capable of great cunning. They are intensely individualistic yet deeply dedicated to their clan and to their own Empire - such as it was."

"I'm not sure it turned out to be such a great combination," Lorca interjects. "In the end it kept them disunited and easy pickings."

"That's very true, of course, although I would suggest they may simply have lacked the right leadership."

"He likes Vulcans, too," Michael continues, a slight smile on her lips. For as long as Lorca's known her, she has been fascinated by Vulcans; they have spent many hours discussing their philosophy of logic, playing with different scenarios and putting them through a Vulcan prism.

"What's not to like?" Kodos replies. "Not only is their physical strength on the par with Klingons, but they are also highly intelligent. Their dedication to logic and ideas over emotions allowed them to become a powerful and united force. It saved us from what would have been a painful war and gave us invaluable allies."

"Well, you've certainly found a friend in Her Highness," Lorca says. "Sometimes I think she'd like nothing more than for all us to sport the same awful haircut."

"Nothing can make you look worse than you already do, Captain," she retorts. Lorca feigns a wounded look. "But what do you make of the Romulans, Councilman? They rejected logic, chose emotions as source of their strength, and they struck some resounding victories against Vulcan. In fact, they are probably to thank for Vulcan's eagerness to ally themselves with us."

"A very good point, which leads me to the one I was trying to make. We Terrans punch far above our weight, consistently so. In fact, our own rapid growth and development nearly led to the destruction of Earth. And that's because we feature far greater diversity within our race than the Vulcans or Klingons or Andorrians do. We _must_ continue to do so. We have already been absorbing technology from other species - why not consider what in their culture could strengthen us also?"

"The diversity you talk about is also what kept us killing one another for centuries," Lorca interjects. "It was chaos. Is that what you'd have us do, go back to that?"

Kodos' countenance grows more serious. "Not at all. Quite the opposite. I believe the Empire is the best thing that ever happened to our race. We need order, just like the Vulcans need logic. Because of our very nature."

"Meaning?"

"We are all just animals, Captain. Highly evolved and adaptable. But we haven't fundamentally changed over the last few thousand years. We can do nothing without food and shelter. We are primed to ensure the reproduction of our genes. Take away food and shelter, and survival will trounce everything else. That's served us well in many ways, of course. Survival of the fittest and so on." He pauses and chuckles, indicating his own slim, groomed appearance. "In my case, survival of the smartest, because I doubt I could win even an arm-wrestling contest. But this is what makes us - makes the Empire - great: we have both order and competition. We need the strongest among us to bring order, and in turn order allows us to become truly more than what we are. You need fire to forge steel, after all, but only skill turns it into a sword."

Lorca can feel his lip twitch. Sure, he's discussed a lot of different ideas with Michael, but he's always turned her away from the more abstract thoughts. They don't help when you've got 3 enemy warships bearing down on you. "You seem too much of a philosopher to enjoy being on a backwater farming colony like this one. How'd you end up here?"

Michael frowns at him, hearing the hostility in the question. Kodos, again, doesn't seem to notice or mind. "I chose to be here. I see this place as the potential template for the future of the Empire. Its high population of veterans means I can see for myself what makes a true survivor and how leadership works. The way this colony has grown is remarkable, and that's down to its people - very few people of which aren't remarkable in one way or another." Kodos tilts his head towards Michael. "None as remarkable as Your Highness, of course. A warrior and a scholar, it seems."

There is no obsequiousness there that Lorca can see. Michael looks a little uncomfortable, but then she's never been good at taking a compliment. "That she is, Councilman," Lorca responds. "Who unfortunately needs to return to her quarters and prepare for tomorrow."

She's not happy but knows better than to complain. They give their goodbyes to Kodos, as well as the rest of the guests.

"What do you make of him?" Michael asks on the short walk to her quarters.

"Talks too much."

She gives him a playful slap on the arm. "Why do you always do that?"

"Do what?"

"Pretend to be dumb when you're anything but."

Has Michael just called him _**smart**_? It's a strange thing to hear from the smartest person he knows. He shakes off the awkwardness with a shrug. "Another reason I'm still alive, Princess."

Having checked her quarters, her two bodyguards swap places with the ones that have stood by her doors all afternoon. It doesn't take long to review her activities for the next day.

"I thought he was interesting," Michael resumes, to Lorca's chagrin. "And quite bold with his ideas. Not many people would say out loud what he did."

"That's because there's no one here who listens."

"I listened. I could tell my mother."

"I'm sure that's what he's hoping for. His ideas may be unusual but hardly revolutionary - I agree with most of 'em. He probably figures a good word in the Emperor's ear from her daughter wouldn't hurt."

"Yeah," she says, sounding disappointed. "Probably."

Lorca sighs inwardly. Although they have got closer again since her rescue of the _Buran_ , some of her reactions still baffle him. She's not naive, or ignorant of how these things work, what her position means for the relationships she makes. This should not be a surprise to her.

She straightens her shoulders and goes to one of the large bay windows, cracking it open. People are milling about in the square below, laughing and drinking, in spite of the chill in the air. Lanterns have been strung across the trees in honour of the Emperor, and it gives the night a warm glow.

Lorca's communicator beeps; Georgiou wants to see him.

He finds her in the same place he left Michael: staring out of her own window. "Interesting place, isn't it?" she starts. "A little bubble of peace in a very dangerous universe. If that was all you knew, what a wonderful world it would be. But we know better, don't we?"

"We certainly do, Your Majesty."

"To think we used to fight and kill and enslave each other," she continues. "What a waste. The other - the REAL other - was never next to us but above us. I look at this place and I wonder, how long can we protect it? Ourselves? How many of our lives up there -" Georgiou tilts her chin up to the skies then out towards the square "-for the lives down here?"

"As many as it takes," Lorca answers. "That's why I joined Starfleet. It doesn't matter where you meet Death - space or the ground. If Death wants you, it will find you. At least in space you can meet it by choice, and keep it away from your people."

"Your loyalty to the Empire and our race is a true gift, Captain," Georgiou replies with a nod. "And you are mostly right. But I think it is time that we change strategy. Instead of waiting to meet Death, why not become Death itself?"

Unlike some of her predecessors, Emperor Georgiou has always been predictable where it matters. The rules as she has set them down are clear: follow your duty; your duty is to the Empire first, then to your honour second; the Emperor is law and the rule of law is all. As long as you follow the rules, she will encourage and reward your ambition. That is how Lorca has become the Emperor's Fist.

Something about this declaration, however, does not sit well with Lorca. He knows his history well enough to understand that the temptation of total victory can be a fatal one.

"What would that entail, Your Majesty?"

"It doesn't matter where or when you fight, the key to a successful military campaign remains logistics. Moving people and supplies quickly enough. So in the short term, ramping up research into anything that can give us a tactical advantage, such as cloaking or speed. And we need to start doing what our enemies do not. The element of surprise is still the most important weapon. _Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose._ "

Lorca relaxes a little. He can't disagree with any of that. "I have a few thoughts about our current tactical strengths and weaknesses. May I present you with a report?"

"That is exactly what I need. And get Michael involved. The girl can clearly think outside the box."

Lorca bows and leaves.

He spends most of the next day preparing for the joint exercises planned with Bao's Marines (his crew need more ground experience), with Michael doing the same with the Standard-Bearers cadet corps. The children and teenagers give Michael a rapturous welcome, incredulous that someone who pretty much looks like them has already attained the sort of glory few adults ever do. She's one of the oldest teenagers there but there is no mistaking her youth, and Lorca feels a little sorry for her. He was a tall fifteen year-old and he thought he knew it all but he was still little more than a child at that age, more concerned with ways to have fun than the future - or even the present. They had been happy times, even if he had no interest in revisiting them. He would not wish Michael's burden on anyone, yet she seems to bear it effortlessly still. She deserves everything he can give her.

Before he meets Balayna, he visits a bar off the main square so he can buy a few drinks for those of his crew that are planetside. They are already engaged in a drinking contest with a few of Bao's men; when he enters, Ensign William Pickford jumps on a table and whistles so loudly and sharply that everyone in the room flinches.

"Captain at the bar!" he bellows, in a voice that fits his broad shoulders and stout face, before leading the rest of the crew into rowdy salutes and a song to Lorca's glory. Lorca laughs and gives Pickford a bear hug and a sound thumping on his back when he comes off the table. He takes the young man's place and stretches out his arms to demand silence.

"Thank you," he tells his crew. "I will remind you that you are guests in this fine establishment and on this fine planet - you will uphold the good reputation and honour of the _ISS Buran_ or I will have you scrubbing portholes with a toothbrush and no space suit for a month. CLEAR?"

"YES, CAPTAIN LORCA, SIR!"

"Next round on me -" Their cheering interrupts him but he brings it down with another raise of his hand. "Barkeep, your finest lemonade for all!" Groans and laughter mingle. "I'll remind you all bunch of butt-sharks and BUBs that you're not doing battle tomorrow with Cadet Burnham and her rugrats but with some fine Marines. You gonna embarrass me? Yourself?"

"No, sir -"

"Never -"

"Good. As you were."

Lorca jumps off the table. As he pays for his crew's lemonade as promised, he spots Bao sitting at the end of the counter, nursing a beer. He nods to the Marine, gets a nod back, then is distracted by Pickford, who seems to have volunteered to collect the drinks from the bar.

"Hey, Pickford." The young man straightens, tries to look more sober. "I mean it. All of it. You've got tomorrow to think about and if you end up in the drunk tank, I ain't getting you out. We leave without you and the A.W.O.L. is on you. Got it?"

"Yes, sir."

Lorca grabs the back of his neck, pulls him close to his face. "I like you, Pickford. Don't make me do it."

"No - no, sir."

He lets Pickford go, slaps him on the ass as the Ensign struggles away with glasses in his hands. He can still feel Bao's eyes on his back when he heads through the door.

Balayna is waiting for him at the entrance of the place she recommended, wearing a black, long-sleeved dress that hugs all her curves all the way to the middle of her thighs, calf-length boots and tights over what's left visible of her legs.

"You look lovely," Lorca grins, wondering if this place delivers its food.

She smiles back, holding his gaze. "And you look very handsome - but I'm sure you knew that."

He chuckles, pleased that she seems playful, and he holds the door for her. It's more of a bar or a pub than a restaurant from what he can see, but offers a handful of plain dishes as a lunch and dinner service. It's located on one of the more narrow, quieter and older streets near the centre, and not much natural light comes through the large bay windows that make up its street side. He wonders about eating al fresco only to find that he likes the muted light inside. It's busy but not too noisy and their table is in a good spot - he ignores the inner voice that tells him to sit face out towards the room but she seems keen that he should enjoy the view of the street outside so he dutifully follows her instructions. It is a pretty view: lights come on as they settle down, warming up the dusk. Having made their choice of what to have, Lorca stands again to order from the bar.

The food is great, the beer crisp and cool, and the company extremely pleasant. Balayna is intelligent and witty and fun-loving: she takes him to another bar when they have finished eating, one where the lights are low and flashing and the music is too loud to talk, so that the only thing you can do is drink and dance. He likes to practice what he preaches so doesn't drink as much as he'd like to, which seems to have been Balayna's plan all along.

"If you're not drinking, you've got to dance," she shouts into his ear above the thumping of the music, and he lets her drag him onto the dance floor. He can't afford to stay out all night, either so he decides to test the waters now, and puts his arm around her waist, pulling her to him. She's surprised but happily slings her arms around his neck. They sway together like that for a bit, not exactly keeping to the rhythm of the music, and he kisses her. Balayna kisses him back, her mouth welcoming him, her hips pushing against him most invitingly.

Lorca directs her off away from the crowd and they spend some time in a rather dark corner until he decides he's done with feeling what's under her dress and wants to see. They stagger out into the street hand in hand and she points straight ahead; as it's not back towards his quarters he guesses she's taking them back to her place. A few meters down the street, she pulls his hand to make him stop and, leaning against him, removes her boots.

"That's pretty damn keen," he says, making her laugh.

"Hate those damn things," Balayna says. "Didn't want you to have to carry me."

"I've carried heavier and uglier, and all under fire. Come on -" He signals to her to hop on his back. She gives him an incredulous look but when he repeats the gesture, she obeys.

They walk along like this, the crowd too busy with their own end of the week revelries, to notice them or the way Balayna kisses and nibbles on his ears and neck, until she suddenly stiffens behind him.

"Not that way, Captain -"

"I think Gabriel's fine."

"Not that way - we need to turn around -"

Lorca frowns. "Isn't it faster through the square?"

"I know a better way," she insists, "we just need to -"

"CAPTAIN!"

Lorca turns back towards the square. Some of the crew and Marines he had found in that bar earlier are standing around by a fast food hole-in-the-wall, either waiting for their orders or to place them.

"Fine way to uphold the _Buran_ 's honour, sir," Ensign Pickford shouts out, saluting him. "You must plant that flagpole for the Emperor, sir!"

Thankfully Lieutenant Deschamps drags Pickford away, looking like she's having a strong word in his ear, which means Lorca can carry on his way through the square.

Balayna is strangely restrained for the remainder of their short journey. He's wondering whether she's changed her mind, but she drags him in for a kiss as soon as she is on the ground by her apartment door.

Balayna makes them coffee afterwards and they talk; he wants to ask her about what was wrong earlier but as she no longer seems unnerved, he decides there's no point. She tells him about growing up on Tarsus IV, about her boredom and how she once hoped to visit Earth and study there. She asks him for suggestions and he offers what little advice he can - and then he can't resist the curve of her breasts under the sheets and the talking stops again.

He makes it back to his quarters around 1am and is glad to find his eyelids feel heavy in spite of the couple of strong espressos he's shared with Balayna. He gets his uniform ready for the morning, makes sure his boots are polished, then falls asleep almost as soon as he gets into bed.

It's another bright, sunny afternoon as all involved in the exercises gather at the foot of the forest outside New Anchorage, with the Emperor, Governor Ribeiro, and Councilman Kodos watching from screens linked to cameras and drones among the trees; Balayna, however, isn't there. A few children from the Standard-Bearers cadet troops have been selected to join the exercise as observers, led by Michael. One boy, his hair a light brown and skin likewise from a lot of time spent outdoors, spends the waiting time chatting to a couple of his crew members, darting his eyes in Lorca and Michael's direction several times.

Lorca points him out to Michael. "I think you've got a fan, Your Highness."

She looks up from checking the clasps on her utility belt, then rolls her eyes. "Oh no, not me. You have. He spent about half an hour asking me questions about you yesterday - I think he knows your record better than you."

"You should tell him I'm a terrible role model."

"I think that's why he loves you."

He grins. "I like the kid already. What's his name?"

"Jim Kirk." She unsheathes her knife, lets the blade shine in the sunlight, then returns it to its leather scabbard. "He's a pain the ass, so I'm sure he'll go far."

"What's your plan on how to handle him?"

"He's eight years-old, he doesn't require 'handling'." Michael pauses. "Give him a wedgie until he whistles like a kettle the minute he thinks he knows better than me."

"That's my girl." He slings his rifle to his back, and they bump their raised forearms.

He leaves her to finish briefing the cadets while he preps his own men. It isn't a competitive exercise as such - both groups are a mix of his crew and Marines - but the way Bao's men stand apart from his own suggests it may as well be.

"Deschamps, what's with the wallflowers over there? Something happen last night?"

She looks a little uncomfortable. "Not exactly, sir. Bit of joshing. We got the last word and I'm guessing they don't like it."

"Well, this is gonna be fun, isn't it?" Deschamps starts to reply. "Shut up. I know I'm smiling but I'm really fucking furious. Do your fucking jobs, let them teach you something then say thank you afterwards. You got that?"

His crew's positive reply is quite a lot more subdued than the night before.

It's a slow-going affair, and Lorca 's glad because that's exactly the kind of experience his crew lacks. Their battles up in space happen very fast and against basically invisible enemies. Taking a fight to the ground, in this kind of topography, requires personal stealth, patience, and the ability to control your trigger finger. During the first phase, it's maneuvers only - they practice assessing the terrain and their route using drones that transmit images directly to their goggles, which is not as easy as it sounds, before taking turns on choosing a location to defend and then assaulting the other group's base. Lorca's group defends first: a few booby traps slow down Bao but in the end his greater experience allows him a victory whose speed seems to satisfy him - although Lorca wonders whether he would truly sacrifice that many men in a frontal assault in a real fight.

After a break, it's Lorca's group's turn to go on the offensive. They advance in a double-breasted flying wedge formation across the forest, with another unit much further back to cover their rear, while pairing men within the wedge formation means that they can protect their flank and advance at the same time. They won't have much time once they engage Bao, and hope that forcing him to spread his defences means they could break through decisively.

The tactic seems to work - Lorca loses men at the rear but once stealth is no longer required, they dart forward towards Bao's defensive line. Just as they reach the shelter of some mossy rocks, Bao's soldiers run over the top of their line towards Lorca and his units. With no shelter they are easy pickings; he is trying to work out how many men Bao may have left now when Michael's voice booms overhead through the monitoring drones.

"Cease fire, cease fire. Captain Lorca, please come now -"

As the noise of their firefight dies down, Lorca becomes aware of people shouting - he's pretty sure Michael is one of them - and sprints across to Bao's ground, switching the setting on his rifle from 'exercise' to 'kill.'

Just as he leaps over the barricade of large, ancient tree trunks, there is a gurgling noise he knows too well, then a heavy thud. Bao has his back to Lorca but he turns to face him as Lorca calls out to him. His face is sweaty and dirty but otherwise impassive. At his feet, lying on his stomach in an expanding pool of blood, is Ensign Pickford. His already pale skin is now ghostly, to match the lifeless eyes fixed on the earth. In Bao's right-hand is a large, jagged hunting knife, dripping red, which he proceeds to wipe on his sleeve.

Lorca grabs Bao by his collar so hard and so fast that the blade is dropped to the ground; with a kick to the back to Bao's legs, the Marine ends up on his back on the forest floor, the landing so heavy that there is the distinct sound of air knocked out of lungs.

"What the actual fucking fuck, Bao?"

"Captain, let me explain, sir -"

His forearm pushing hard against Bao's throat, Lorca looks up at Michael. Some of Bao's Marines are pointing their rifles at him, while others are pointing them at Lorca's crew, who have raised their own weapons. He glances around him, picking up the sounds of a light scuffle, but it's two of Bao's people trying to hold the kids back a short distance away; he's dimly aware of the Kirk boy breaking through and stumbling forward a few steps.

"Captain Lorca, Lieutenant Colonel Bao, report to Command immediately."

That's the Emperor's voice. His crew and Bao's men lower their weapons almost immediately. Lorca tightens his grip one last time before releasing Bao and he gets some grim satisfaction from the sound of the man's wheezing as they hurry to Emperor Georgiou's camp.

Bao kneels in front of Georgiou as soon as they get there; Lorca can barely stop himself from sending him to the floor with the kick to the back of his head. He won't play Bao's game, either, choosing to simply salute the Emperor.

"Ensign Pickford was Captain Lorca's man. Explain yourself, Bao."

"Ensign Pickford was tasked with Communications during this exercise. On several occasions he transmitted orders incorrectly and also challenged my authority - I believe because he was drunk."

"On what evidence?"

"That of my eyes, and the fact my men counter-attacked later than I told Pickford to order them to, leaving them open to Captain Lorca's fire."

"Is that what the drones showed?"

Georgiou waves a hand in the air. "There were no drones in their location at that moment in time."

"Convenient," Lorca sneers. "And in any case Pickford was _**mine**_ to deal with, Bao."

"It was not your authority being challenged, Captain, it was mine. To be challenged in front of my men - by a space cowboy - I was not gonna let that go."

"What did ya call us?"

"ENOUGH," Georgiou barks. "In what way did Pickford challenge you, Bao?"

"Ask her, Your Majesty." Bao indicates Deschamps, who has just arrived with Michael.

"Lieutenant Deschamps, is it?" Georgiou asks, her tone glacial. "Care to explain?"

"Yes, Your Majesty," she replies, bowing deeply. She has more sense than to hesitate. "I don't believe Ensign Pickford was drunk today, but he was last night, when we were out. He made some jokes about Lieutenant Colonel Bao."

"I was not there at the time to deal with it," Bao interrupts. "It was my men who reported his remarks."

"Jokes? And did they offend you because they were not funny, or too funny? Deschamps, do you remember the jokes?"

"Not the specific words, Your Majesty. Just something about… about the Lieutenant Colonel and Balayna Ferasini and Captain Lorca. Because Captain Lorca and Ferasini were seen together. But it seems there was a relationship established between Ferasini and the Lieutenant Colonel."

 _ **Oh, shit.**_

"Michael?" Georgiou addresses her daughter. "You were there, were you not? Was a challenge issued?"

She nods. "Lieutenant Colonel Bao told Pickford he had a choice: lick his boots, or fight. I told Pickford to choose the boots. He felt he had to defend the honour of the _Buran_ , of the Captain. So he picked the fight."

"Why didn't your men fight for you, Bao?" Lorca interjects. "Did they find the jokes funny, too?"

"Unlike you, I don't need my men to fight for _**my**_ honour, Captain."

There is that whistle of steel against steel as Georgiou draws her sword quicker than her small stature should let her. She swings the blade into place between Lorca and Bao. "That's ENOUGH. This is a ridiculous matter to lose a man over, and I don't need to lose another excellent soldier over it. Pickford mocked a superior officer. He was offered a choice, he took it. Kneel before me, both of you."

Bao is first to the ground, Lorca takes a beat longer, seething with anger. Then he feels the cold, sharp point of Georgiou's sword on his chin and is forced to look up at her.

"I shall hear no more about this incident, or anything related to it. Do you understand, Captain?"

"Yes, Your Majesty," he answers, loud and clear.

She moves her blade to the side of Bao's face, lets it glide ever so slightly over his cheek. "Bao?"

"Yes, Your Majesty." His tone is slightly less monotone for once, as a cut opens over his skin and blood begins to flow.

"Splendid. Everyone did well today. I look forward to the reports. Dismissed."

Lorca can feel his jaws clench. As both he and Bao rise to their feet, Michael moves and comes to stand between him and the Marine. She takes a step so he can't walk out without barging her out of the way, and only after a beat does she head out the way Bao went, pausing again on the threshold of Georgiou's tent. She checks her watch as she finally steps aside.

"That's enough of that, Burnham," Lorca starts, nearly growling. "I don't need -"

"Look at that, I'm off-duty. Captain Lorca - take me back to New Anchorage, would you? Lieutenant Deschamps can wrap things up here." Deschamps is taken aback by the change in Michael's tone and the sudden shift in power. She looks at Lorca, who signals to her to do as Michael says.

Safely ensconced in their car, Michael offers Lorca some water, which he rejects. "I couldn't let you, Gabriel. You heard her." She points at her cheek. "And she made Bao know she wasn't impressed."

"What I heard was an asshole spouting horseshit because he didn't have the balls for a real dick-measuring contest."

"That's got to be a new record for mixing metaphors."

He suddenly remembers who he's with, and how old she is. "Apologies, Your Highness."

She makes a face. "Michael, please. I only pulled ranks because I didn't want you to lose your head and _**then**_ lose your head. Anyway, I've heard worse in Engineering. Usually about you." He grunts. "Bao may be an asshole, but Pickford was an idiot."

"You think it's true? He messed up the orders and showed up drunk today?"

"No, I don't, actually. But I'm talking about whatever he said about you and Balayna, and who he said it to. He was a fun guy but he was always looking for a fight, from what the others said - and you don't go butting heads with a Lieutenant Colonel of the Marines who's got twenty years experience on you."

She's right, of course. But still… "I just don't like assholes."

Michael nods. Then, "Did you know? About Bao and Balayna?"

"No, I didn't."

"Would it have made a difference if you had known?"

"Sure. I'd have been more discreet."

"Look who's an asshole now." Lorca frowns at her. He's in no mood for their usual sallies. She sighs, raises a conciliatory hand.

Looking out of the car window, he notices they can't be far from Balayna's apartment. When the driver, employed by the Council, confirms she does know her address, he directs her there.

"I will you see at dinner tonight," he tells Michael as he steps out. He doesn't plan on being long but he badly wants a beer, and to drink it on his own.

He rings Balayna's bell, then bangs his fist on the door when he gets no answer. Finally he calls out to her - and this time she comes to the intercom.

"Gabriel? What are you doing here?"

"Got something to talk to you about."

"What's that?"

"I'm not gonna shout it out here for everyone to hear, Balayna."

The screen goes dark - there's a pause, then a click and her door slides open. It's late afternoon now but her blinds are down already, plunging her apartment into an early semi-dark. A hoover-bot is quietly buzzing around the floor in her small living room. Shelves have come off the wall and in a corner sits a box full of broken knick-knacks.

On the wall behind the shelves, someone has burned a large 'W'. The same letter appears on the sofa and then the floor. Lorca goes to Balayna's bedroom - another 'W' on the wall behind her bed, and on the ceiling. He returns to the living room, where Balayna is re-arranging cushions to cover the mark on the sofa. She moves in a slow, deliberate way, the way people with broken bodies do. And then when she looks up at him, her hair sways away from her face long enough that he can see the black and blue around her left eye, and her loose top slips off her shoulder and reveals a bandage. He recognises the type - it's what you put on a burn. Lorca points at it.

"Did he put a letter there, too?" She nods. "What else?"

"Nothing some rest and painkillers can't cure."

"Last night you were asking me how to get off this planet, maybe make it to work on the _Charon_. Balayna baby, you wouldn't last a day out there. What the hell did you think was gonna happen here, huh? Somehow I'd sweep you off into space after one night together? That's really, really dumb. And now one of my men's dead because you thought you were something special."

"Someone is dead? I don't understand -"

"Don't worry, I'm sure you'll hear all about it, soon as you step out of your door again." Balayna has tears in her eyes now. "I'm sorry for what's happened to you. But I'm even more sorry for what happened to my man. Now here's some free advice, because I think you're a nice girl. You don't know how good you've got it here. Don't go finding out."

He walks out of her apartment and away from her building. The thought of sitting across from Bao over dinner later enrages him. Maybe he can find a reason to excuse himself from the meal, or convince Georgiou to leave early.

He's had enough of Paradise.


	8. Chapter 8 KNOW THY ENEMY

Thank you to everyone still reading this, and all the kind reviews you've taken the time to leave. Extra thanks to Makimurakaori for the beta check.

 **Chapter 8 - Know Thy Enemy**

"Computer, time."

" _The time is Oh-Six-Twenty-Seven._ "

"Locate Michael Burnham."

" _Data classified._ "

It took a moment for Lorca to register what had been said. "Captain Gabriel Lorca, level 4 access, three-four-beta-brutus-G-thirty. Locate Michael Burnham."

" _Data classified up to Level 5 and to Michael Burnham._ "

"Location of Michael Burnham between 1930 last night and 0627 this morning?"

" _Data classified up to Level 5 and to Michael Burnham._ "

"Michael Burnham is NOT cleared for level 5 access. How can she have access to this information?"

" _That data is not available._ "

Someone else might have panicked at the thought they had no idea where the heir to the Terran throne was, especially if she was explicitly under their care and protection. But Lorca had a strong feeling of where he'd find her, and it angered him so much that he'd have preferred it if she had somehow been taken.

"Computer, scan cabin 1, section A of Deck 5. What life forms are present?"

" _There are currently 3 Vulcans, one Terran and one Sehlat in cabin 1, section A of Deck 5_."

He leapt to his feet and headed out of his quarters; he was still fastening his weapons belt as he ordered the guards at his door to follow him. He had no need to say anything more: the look on his face was dark enough that the three midshipmen in the turbolift vacated it immediately as he stepped in and his guards had their weapons drawn before they had reached Deck 5.

At the sight of the three Terrans - two of them with their phasers at the ready, the other the Emperor's Fist - the two Vulcan guards outside the doors of cabin 1 snapped something in their native language, no doubt to the rest of their entourage inside, and raised their own phasers at Lorca and his men.

"Is Michael Burnham in there?"

"Her Highness is currently Special Envoy Sarek's guest. What is your purpose here?"

"Special Envoy Sarek is _our_ guest, and my purpose here is none of your business."

"Special Envoy Sarek is not under your authority, Captain," the Vulcan guard continued in that monotonous, factual Vulcan tone that Lorca hated. "Furthermore, as his personal guards, your purpose here is entirely our… business." He did not bother to hide his disdain at the Terran idiom. "I am surprised this must be explained to you, Captain."

Emotionless? Bullshit. Logical? _My ass_. Lorca was convinced the whole logic thing was a gimmick to hide behind so Vulcans could liberally insult people without getting their throats slit every time they opened their mouths.

"I am tasked with Her Highness Michael's protection," he snarled, stepping right up to the Vulcan's phaser nozzle. "And Her Highness - your future Emperor - her safety trumps everything else. I am surprised this must be explained to _you_. So, what is it going to be? You gonna let me in, or do I have to assume that Special Envoy Sarek has taken her hostage?"

"Such an assumption would be entirely illogical," the Vulcan replied.

"I'm Terran. You know how it is."

Before the conversation could carry on or escalate, the Vulcans' communicators beeped. Whatever was said, the guards stepped back to their original positions either side of the doors, weapons swiftly holstered and not a glance spared at Lorca when he was allowed to enter the cabin.

There were two more guards inside, of course, and the Special Envoy's sehlat lying down at the feet of his master: the beast, almost large enough to allow a grown man to ride it, raised its head to growl at Lorca, baring more of his two already long fangs; a word from Sarek silenced it. The Special Envoy had got up, which was more than could be said for Michael, who remained seated in front of a three-dimensional chess set, ignoring Lorca entirely.

"Captain Lorca, good morning. I apologise for my guards' zealousness. I assure you I consider myself very much a guest on your ship, and thank you for your escort to Bajor."

Ever the diplomat, Lorca thought. But he was no such thing. "The Emperor commanded me to take you. No thanks necessary." He turned to Michael. "Your Highness, may I have a word in private?"

"We can speak later, Captain. I'm in the middle of a game."

She still wasn't looking at him.

"Perhaps Your Highness could continue the game with Captain Lorca," Sarek spoke. "I was about to request an adjournment so that I may begin work for our arrival."

Was the Vulcan actually trying to provoke him to murder? Lorca glared at Sarek, hoping he'd be able to read on his face just how much of an asshole Lorca thought he was.

"I have one more hour before my shift begins," Michael replied. "I'm sure you've done enough work already to ensure that an hour's chess playing won't leave you unprepared. Let's continue."

There was a long pause, during which Lorca tried to think of a reason he could haul Michael out of there even though she wasn't on duty and it was his turn to take orders from her. He could think of nothing.

"In an hour, then," Lorca said, nodding curtly.

He was almost out of the doors when Michael called for him. "Captain Lorca?" He stopped, turned to face her. She stared at him for a moment, head cocked, as though she was studying him. "Nevermind. You can go."

He spent the next sixty minutes pacing around in his weapons room, trying to damp down his anger and understand what was going on with Michael. Ever since the Special Envoy had stepped onboard the _Buran_ eight days ago _,_ Michael had spent nearly all her free time with Sarek. He badly wanted to blame the Vulcan for monopolising her attention, but aside from his gift of the three-dimensional chess set, Michael had been the one to seek him out. He had no idea what they spent so much time talking about and it made him deeply uneasy. He wondered now if he had been wrong to indulge her interest in the Vulcans all these years, and what it said about her.

Georgiou had, at different times, described Michael as stubborn, rebellious and arrogant, and not always as compliments. Lorca had seen it, too, but given that the girl was either right or successful at whatever she set her mind to, it seemed only a fair description - and she had never treated him like anything else other than someone she respected, whatever their disagreements.

Until today.

The anger, which he had managed to bring down to an irritating itch, felt like a burn again.

" _Cadet Burnham here to see you, sir,_ " his guards announced over the intercom.

Perfect fucking timing, he thought, taking a breath and trying to remind himself he was the adult in the room. It might have worked if Michael hadn't entered with a perfectly placid and Vulcan-like expression on her face.

"You were supposed to meet me for breakfast before your shift, Cadet. Explain yourself."

"Her Highness was supposed to meet with you, sir. She changed her mind."

He clenched his jaw. "Without informing me? Why?"

"She does not need to inform you, or give you a reason," Michael replied, her tone irritatingly respectful, her gaze locked on one of his weapons cabinets, not looking at him.

"True," Lorca said. He leaned back against a console, whistled through his teeth. "That little power play at the end, though. Putting me in my place like that. What a little bitch, huh?"

Michael's nostrils flared, her breath itched, cheeks darkening. "Maybe she had her reasons."

"Really? I wonder what they could be. Other than showing off, I mean."

"Maybe you were being a dick."

One step and he was standing in front of her, his chest almost bumping hers, towering over the skinny girl she was. "You're forgetting yourself now, Cadet."

She looked up at him, eyes blazing. "Call me a little bitch again, I'll make _you_ forget yourself."

She meant it. She never said anything she didn't mean. "Treat me _like_ a bitch again," he growled, "and you won't even have the chance."

They stared at each other like that for a long while, toes to toes, until some unknown cloud seemed to pass over Michael's face and she looked down again, eyes back to his chest. Somehow it felt nothing like the victory it was supposed to be.

Lorca stepped back from her and around the console, so that it stood between him and Michael. He needed the space as much as she did.

"Never explain, never apologise," Michael said suddenly. "That's what my mother tells me."

He nodded. "She's right."

"She would be if you really were my bitch. But you're not."

"Was that… an apology?"

"Yes. Now do you want the explanation, too? You _were_ being a dick. You _embarrassed_ me."

"How? How could I possibly -"

"You nearly started a fight with Sarek's men just because you were angry I hadn't showed up this morning! Like I'm some child who has to answer to you, rather than the heir to the Terran empire!"

"You do answer to me," Lorca retorted. "You are on _my_ ship, under _my_ protection! Damnit, Michael, I can't not know where you are! And you cannot be alone with that guy without Terran protection!"

"He is the Vulcan Special Envoy! He has done nothing but carry out my mother's orders for years and maintain good relations between Vulcan and Earth, and pretty damn successfully, too. Do you really think he's going to try to hurt me? _Here_? Why would he?"

"I don't trust him. I don't trust any of them. And neither should you."

"Why not?"

"Because the only reason they are vassals to Earth is sheer dumb luck. Because they had just come out of a nasty war with the Romulans when we encountered them, and they knew we would have won the fight, or that winning it against us would have left them fatally weak. They despise us, Michael, and they despise the fact they have to serve us. They make up most of the rebellion against your mother's rule."

"If that's true, then I should be learning about them, not shunning them. And you don't have to trust them. You could trust me."

She was right, of course. And no, she wasn't a child, and she probably was one of the sharpest and most competent people he knew. But…

 _What?_

"You know how smart I think you are, Michael. I've told you way too many times. But you don't know everything, at least not yet. How about you trust _me_ on that?"

She'd smiled a little when he'd called her smart but now she bristled, as he fully expected her to. Telling her she didn't know something was always a personal affront to her. Then she stepped up to the console, grabbing its edges as though she could shove it into him.

"Something's bothering you, Gabriel."

"Damn Vulcans on my ship are bothering me."

Michael shook her head. "No, that's not it. Something has been bothering you since we left Tarsus IV. It's not that business with Bao, is it? That man is a slither of dung on the leg of a fly. He will never be anything else."

Lorca realised - a little late - that she'd called him by his first name. He could have made something of it but found he didn't feel like it. "It's that report your mother's asked for. I'm not too happy with the data."

She nodded; she'd worked on it with him so she knew of his frustrations with that they'd found. He was still amazed such a thing hadn't been commissioned before, but then the Empire lacked a habit of keeping good records: no one wanted to be blamed for poor numbers. That was supposed to change under Georgiou, but imposing order and unity across the vast distances of the Terran territories had taken up too much of their time. He thought they were getting close, until he'd looked at the state of their forces and the number of enemy forces lurking on their borders.

But Bao bothered him, too. What he'd done to Balayna. He shouldn't care as much as he did - she'd been stupid and taken Lorca for an idiot, too - and he'd been finding himself vasillating between missing her and counting his blessings he'd managed to leave before things had got complicated.

The computer beeped, signalling a change of shift.

"You'd better get to wherever you're supposed to be, Cadet - what is it today?"

"Engineering."

As Michael turned to leave, he called out to her. "I want that location tracker declassified to Level 4 by tonight. And a report detailing how you broke into the system."

"Yes, sir."

She was smirking, damn her. "Next time you want to cancel, you tell me. I'll skip the lecture on better uses of your time. All right?"

Michael nodded and left. Lorca sighed. He was glad they'd reached Bajor at last. He and Kat were going to have a lot to talk about.

Lorca snuck a look at the Cardassian delegation standing some distance away to his right. Sarek's decision - request on the face of it - to postpone the start of negotiations in favour of some education in Bajoran culture had wrong-footed both the Cardassians and the Bajorans, with the latter far too proud of their civilisation to turn him down. The Bajorans, like the Cardassians, were isolationists who knew about and of each other only because they were nearest to them; their ignorance of much of the rest of the Alpha Quadrant was definitely working to the Terrans' advantage because Lorca could tell they were reading Sarek's neutral and forthright demeanour as something akin to guilelessness. It was anything but: Vulcans never uttered a single word that did not have a specific purpose.

The Terrans were going into these negotiations at a slight disadvantage, Sarek had told Lorca and Katrina, because they had won a battle and not a war while the Bajorans had more trust in and familiarity with the Cardassians. The Cardassians' clear discomfort now told him Sarek had succeeded in shifting that balance of power somewhat. Lorca thought back on what he'd tried to tell Michael the night before. Of course he knew exactly how capable Sarek was. That was exactly why he distrusted him so much. From his left, Katrina threw him an amused glance.

"Stop looking like you're about to murder someone," she whispered. "This is a place of worship."

Lorca grunted, earning himself a quick side-eye from Sarek's guards. _Can you hear me say 'Fuck you?'_ he mouthed at them with mock earnestness. No doubt Sarek had heard him, too, since he'd possess the same heightened hearing as other Vulcans, but he gave no indication that he had, his attention seemingly all on the Bajoran priest - or was it bishop? Pope? - talking to him about the Temple they stood in. Michael, who never turned down a chance to look at something new, was listening just as intently. He didn't like it one bit - here they were on an alien planet, surrounded by two different hostile forces in a location they'd had no chance to properly scan and vet, and she really ought to be paying more attention to that. _Guess that's what I'm here for_ , he thought.

Of course, it was possible that the Cardassians were simply bothered by the setting they found themselves in, and he couldn't blame them. Cardassia, like Earth, had long ago given up the worship of magical beings in the sky but Bajor had not. In fact, on Bajor, the priests seemed to have a strong hold over the politicians - not directly, since they held no seats in the legislature, but somehow emotionally and _spiritually_ , whatever that meant. However you defined their power and how they had grown it, the consequence was that their head priest (a _Kai_ , Lorca now remembered) had been given a seat at the negotiating table. Apparently, fairies had stronger opinions on geopolitics than you'd expect from beings that lived in an entirely different dimension in which time itself had no meaning.

 _Not fairies. Prophets_.

Still, it was one way to ensure the stable continuity of power, and there was something amusing about watching the most logical and rational beings in the Quadrant entertaining stories of Gods in Celestial Temples and magical objects that could grant you visions of the future.

"That is fascinating," Sarek replied to the Kai. "Would it be possible to view one of these Orbs?"

The handful of Vedeks - lesser priests - who were escorting the Kai visibly bristled and Lorca's eyes went straight to their hands, which they kept stuffed into long bell sleeves where he was pretty sure they kept their weapons.

"I am sorry, that won't be possible," the Kai replied. Her tone was polite but she suddenly looked much more guarded. "The Orbs are sacred to us. Very few of even our people are deemed worthy to have access to them."

"I see. How is worthiness determined?"

"Their _pah_ is tested, assessed. It must be strong and open to truth."

"How do you test the _pah_?"

"We hold your right ear."

A Vulcan was never going to burst out laughing but a Terran certainly could, and Lorca struggled to contain himself. When he was a child, he'd often played a game with his friends that involved holding each other's ear until someone laughed, and whoever laughed first got a slap in the face. Religion was for children, and that proved it.

"Would you test my _pah_?" Sarek asked. More bristling; Lorca thought he heard a scoff. "If the aim of negotiations is to achieve compromise, I believe it is necessary to consider what we have in common - what we each might desire, if you will - rather than what opposes us. I do not expect to be judged worthy of an Orb, but perhaps if you can feel my _pah_ , we may not seem so different after all."

The Cardassians mumbled between themselves, clearly unhappy.

The Kai took a moment to consider Sarek, her hesitation suggesting that she really believed in the tales she'd told them. Lorca wondered what she feared she might find in Sarek's head, and whether the Bajorans, like Terrans, had stories in their culture of devilish creatures with pointy ears.

Eventually she nodded, and he had to bend down, tall as he was, to allow her to grasp his ear lobe. All eyes were on the Kai now, while hers and Sarek's remained locked on each other.

After only another few short moments, the Kai's hand dropped back to her side, a little too fast to be entirely controlled. "Your _pah_ is strong, yes. And different." Lorca raised an eyebrow. It looked like Sarek's play had backfired - " But it also resides in your family. Your wife, your son. That is indeed the same as all sentient beings."

Michael looked at Lorca, her request obvious. He shook his head: he'd let her partake in these parlour tricks over his dead body. That Sarek had a wife and son was hardly a secret, that the Kai was never going to declare the Empire's chief negotiator to be a soulless husk hardly a surprise.

"Your Holiness," Gul Nektor suddenly spoke up. "That stained glass there -" he was pointing to one of the small windows on the side of the main altar "- is that the work of San Tomas?"

"It is indeed," the Kai replied, looking pleased. Lorca pursed his lips; the Cardassians weren't going to take it lying down. "He is mostly known for the work he did in the southern provinces but in fact around the later part of his life -"

Lorca left his attention drift from the Kai's explanation to the object in question. Like most of the windows in this temple, it was a semi-abstract representation of a humanoid figure surrounded by fire, or producing fire to strike down at unseen enemies. From the little he'd read up on Bajoran religion, they believed that the "Prophets" had gifted the Bajorans with a kind of holy, fiery strength through their _pah_ \- soul, Lorca guessed - and worshipped elemental notions about everything, developing various cults around life and death, fire and water, love and hate. Earthy yet spiritual, Sarek had called them.

 _Everyone thinks theirs are the chosen people_. He'd seen that kind of self-belief before many times. There was no doubt that the Bajorans were incredible craftsmen. This temple, for instance, had an exterior that rippled with smooth, curving juts that twisted and warped on itself as though fire had been caught in stone, while the interior was kept in a warm, cocoon-like semi-darkness: the stained glass windows didn't seem to be there to allow light in: rather they absorbed so much of it that in the further corners of the temple they seemed to be floating in darkness, a focal point of luminosity. It was beautiful and inviting and could not have been more different than what Lorca had seen of Klingon places of worship - dank places that felt like somewhere things went to die. The Klingons thought they were different, too, in spite of what reality had to say on the matter - their crushing defeat to the Terran Empire - but they continued to fight because they believed they should. The blatant hostility shown to the Terran delegation - and to a lesser extent, the Cardassians - on their short amble through the streets of the Bajoran capital city told him the natives would give them a hard fight if half the chance presented itself to them. He didn't think much of their fantasies of fire sky fairies, but he always respected strength of will.

By the end of the 2nd day of actual negotiations, that strength of will was making it difficult to move forward. The Cardassians had the status quo on their side, no doubt bending Bajoran ears out of the room about the respectful distance Cardassia had always kept from Bajor; they were pressing for next to nothing while Sarek was asking to allow for Terran forces in Bajoran territory.

"They are bluffing," Katrina insisted. "The only reason the Cardassians haven't invaded Bajor yet is because they can't. They are overstretched and don't have the capacity for a ground war - the only reason they engaged us in battle was to test us and scare us off. Now they know we don't scare easily, I can guarantee you they will accelerate whatever plan they have set with regards to Bajor."

"I agree with Admiral Cornwell's assessment," Sarek said from behind steepled fingers. "Whether the Bajorans appreciate those facts is unclear."

"No one's gonna like having to choose what hole they're gonna get fucked in," Lorca replied. Although Sarek was never going to show a reaction, he still enjoyed trying to irritate the Vulcan.

"Captain Lorca, I'll remind you this is an official, minuted briefing."

 _Killjoy_ , he thought. Still, he got it: Georgiou tasking Katrina with Bajor and Cardassia was her chance to get back into favour and he couldn't blame her for taking it with both hands.

"Apologies, Admiral," he said cheerfully. "No one like to choose how they're going to get a beating. Still a beating at the end of the day."

"To pursue this metaphor," Sarek continued, "given that we are in no position ourselves to… give a beating, we must appear to have no such intention."

"Isn't that going to make us look weak?" Michael interjected. As with the rest of the proceedings, she'd been allowed to attend the debriefings and planning meetings but until now had never said anything.

Lorca looked at Katrina. _We_ are _weak_.

"It doesn't matter what the Cardassians think right now, since they can't act on it," Katrina answered Michael. "In fact, let them think we are weak. Might make them complacent and give us more time."

"The Bajorans will not let us establish a permanent mission on Bajor or anywhere in their system," Sarek reminded them. "They are more likely to allow the Cardassians to do so."

"Why d'you say that?"

"You may not have appreciated our visit to the temple a few days ago, Captain, but it made clear something I suspected: that the Bajorans have more in common with Cardassians than Terrans, which makes them more likely to trust them than they are to trust us."

Lorca scoffed. "Have you seen what these people look like, Special Envoy? Turtles. Or lizards. Lizard turtles." Michael bit her lip, stifling her laughter.

"The Cardassians have a deep, abiding love for art and beauty - indeed they have been described by others as hungry for it. That is something the Bajorans can appreciate - and our lack of interest in those matters is perhaps the one thing they do know about us."

"What do you suggest we could do about that?" Katrina asked.

"We must work with what they know: they will be more likely to trust it. Therefore I will submit to Emperor Georgiou that we officially withdraw from the Bajor-B'hava'el system and allow Bajor to become a Cardassian protectorate if they so wish. As the situation currently stands, any intelligence gathering, any preparation for war in this sector, will have to take place in complete secrecy in any case. If we are believed to be weak, it will offer us an element of surprise when the time comes."

There was a long moment of silence eventually broken by Michael. "My mother will not like it."

"I don't like it, either," Lorca said, sitting up. "How exactly do you intend to gather any intelligence if we are not allowed in the system at all?"

"It is a risk, without a doubt - however, I believe we can retain a presence in the sector that would allow us to do what we need to do - and possibly yield further reward. It is my intention to request permission to establish a Vulcan scientific mission on Bajor."

"To research what, exactly?"

"The nature of the Prophets, Admiral."

Lorca scoffed but Michael sat forward, eyes wide with excitement. "You mean the wormhole theory?"

"That is correct, Your Highness -"

"It's Cadet Burnham, Sarek."

Sarek acknowledged him with a nod. "That is correct, Cadet Burnham," he reprised. "Perhaps you would care to explain to Captain Lorca and Admiral Cornwell."

"The Bajorans believe in beings they call the Prophets - beings that are non-corporal and reside in what they call the Celestial Temple," Michael started. "Descriptions of this Celestial Temple match what we would describe as a wormhole. What's more..." She tapped a few keys on her PADD and instantly Lorca and Katrina's own devices beeped with the arrival of new information. "There are sudden leaps in cultural and technological advancements on Bajor over a period of thirty thousand years that Bajoran archeologists and anthropologists still cannot explain. That is roughly around the times the Bajorans claim to have encountered the Prophets or received what they call the tears of the Prophets, now kept in numerous Orbs."

"You're thinking alien intervention?" Katrina said.

"It's a plausible hypothesis," Michael replied. Lorca stared at her - so that's the kind of thing she and Sarek had spent so much time talking about? "I think Special Envoy Sarek should explain the next part - I am still getting my head around the physics."

The Vulcan turned back towards Lorca and Katrina. "It is in fact a theory that Bajoran scientists have been pursuing for a number of years also, and their approach to space time theory is quite novel. They believe that the Celestial Temple may in fact be a stable wormhole and the Prophets its inhabitants."

He had to say something, then. "Oh, come on! Stable wormholes? With people living in it?"

"Should any sentient life be found in a wormhole, Captain, it is unlikely to be 'people' as we understand the notion. There is also the question of these Orbs the Bajorans are so secretive about. I have been able to access some medical literature regarding those allegedly exposed to their contents -"

"I thought it was a sacred experience?," Lorca cut him off. "Now you're telling me they've been experimenting with them?"

"Not as such. It appears some individuals can have a psychologically damaging reaction to their exposure to the Orbs; the files I read pertained to the examinations carried out on these individuals following their psychiatric confinement."

"Oh yeah, lunatics always provide you with the most reliable evidence -"

"Captain," Katrina interjected. "I don't think Special Envoy Sarek was finished." She glared at him, but he was too annoyed now to apologise to her.

"Thank you, Admiral. The data relevant to us is physiological and therefore quite reliable, Captain. They show faint traces of chroniton radiation in the affected's brains."

"What's chroniton radiation?" Katrina asked.

"It's the by-product contaminant of temporal breaches," Michael explained, now looking more energised than ever. "Or molecular phase inversion."

That Lorca had heard of. Both the Klingons and Romulans had begun to experiment with molecular phase inversion to enable them to cloak not just from light and sensors but within matter itself. And once phased, no conventional weapon could touch a ship in that state. It disgusted him that Terrans weren't even close to having their own basic cloaking engineering. The only silver lining is that there seemed to be little consensus whether molecular phase inversion was even possible - at least safely so.

Now he was interested, and it annoyed him further.

"So what does that mean?" He raised his hand as Michael opened his mouth. "Explained to someone who's _never_ got their heads around physics."

"It means that somehow the Bajorans have in their position something with potential interphasial properties," she tried. "Something that until now we have no evidence occurs in nature."

"If it is a natural occurrence," Sarek added, "we may be able to harness its power. If it is not - we may still be able to harness its power, and it would suggest that perhaps there does exist somewhere in this system a stable wormhole. Either way: intelligence and knowledge beyond preparation for invasion."

"I will speak to my mother," Michael said. "I will convince her to agree."

"What about the Bajorans?" Katrina reminded Sarek. "What makes you think they will agree to your request?"

"In truth, I am not sure. I believe they will be relieved to have such limited Terran presence on Bajor. They also view Vulcans somewhat differently from Terrans. This is why the delegation should be Vulcan only."

"Yeah," Lorca sneered. "Convenient. What have you been telling them, Sarek?"

"You've been doing all the talking, Captain. Your lack of interest in Bajoran culture and generally hostile demeanour have led them to believe that Terrans are not particularly thoughtful people. Simply put, they do not like you."

Katrina chuckled. "Good Vulcan, bad Terran. Nicely done, Sarek."

Nicely done? Checkmate would have been more accurate. Michael, true to her word, spoke to her mother about Sarek's strategy and its logic, and her seal of approval was readily obtained. Katrina had made sure to corner Lorca before contacting the Emperor, to make him swear he would not, as she put it, fuck it up for her. She hadn't needed to twist his arm: he was grown-up enough to recognise that Sarek's plan was the best they had, and his speculation about the Orbs was beguiling. But if the Vulcans did discover something useful about interphasing, how could the Terrans make sure they would have access to that knowledge, too? He had no doubt Georgiou would be asking herself the same question - at least he hoped so - and he'd have to find the time to discuss it with her directly. As it was, he wasn't willing to risk even his own subspace channels while Vulcans were onboard his ship.

There were a few more days of pretending to want things they wouldn't get, and then a break to "allow" Sarek to discuss options with the Emperor based on Bajor's wishes. When they returned to the negotiating table, Sarek duly offered to withdraw from Bajoran space, to appease the Bajorans, if Bajor would acquiesce to protectorate status under Cardassia to satisfy the Cardassians. To satisfy the Terran Empire, however, he requested permission to have a Vulcan scientific mission on Bajor itself (who would of course work with the Bajorans). It pained Lorca to admit it but Sarek had been right: the Bajorans readily agreed, flattered by the notion that outsiders would help them seek the Prophets. Maybe they thought that if they could coax them out of the Celestial Temple, the rest of the quadrant would fall into monoreligious harmony.

The success of Sarek's strategy meant two things: first, that Sarek would be heading back to Vulcan aboard Katrina's ship since she outranked Lorca - and her escort was what Sarek's rank and diplomatic victory required. Second, as he was returning to Vulcan to select the personnel of the scientific mission and devise its parameters, they would rendezvous with Emperor Georgiou's _ISS Cerberus_ to discuss both. Having Sarek finally off his ship and away from Michael was a relief, as was the knowledge he would have a chance to keep Georgiou from trusting Sarek too much. She'd toss him out of an airlock for saying so, but like Michael, the Emperor had something close to a soft spot for Vulcans and what he called their logic voodoo. The relentlessly unsentimental and rational approach of Sarek's people was reassuring to someone like her who believed in the uselessness of sentiment when it came to surviving a cold and heartless universe. To Lorca, however, survival was dependent on power: the Vulcans had surrendered to the Terrans because that was the only way they could retain any power. _Logic_ dictated that they would only be seeking to regain what they had lost. Terrans themselves often lost a great deal to the vagaries of their leaders, and they were their own kind - why expect _Vulcans_ to tolerate that kind of dependence? He wouldn't.

As far as he was concerned, the Klingons, savage as they were, were more trustworthy than Vulcans.

The downside of Sarek being off his ship, Lorca soon found out, was that he could not keep an eye on him. A few hours before they were due to reach their rendezvous point, Lorca boarded Katrina's ship to discuss how they would handle Sarek's demands and she wasted no time in giving him a warning.

"Sarek is up to something," she started as she poured him a drink. "Which is as you and I would expect, but I have no idea what it is and that bothers me a lot. Mostly because I know it's going to bother you even more."

He raised his glass in thanks. "What have you got?"

"A lot of communications between my ship and Vulcan, as you'd expect given what we're looking to do. More unusually, he's been talking to his wife a lot."

"His _wife_?"

"Exactly."

"Well, she's human - maybe she likes to hear from him."

"Not usually, from previous records of his travels. And come on, she probably loves the break."

"Previous records?" Lorca asked, surprised. "What do you know about those?"

"Called in a favour back at Intelligence. Wanted to check if my gut was right."

"Thanks, Kat," he murmured. She couldn't afford to make waves or risk ruffling up the wrong feathers, and yet she had done this for him.

"That's what friends are for," she replied. "It's not much to go on, though."

"Vulcans are creatures of habit. Any break from routine _is_ information, and it's always better to know something rather than nothing. Any chance we can find out what might be going on at Casa Sarek?"

"I've sent a request to the Terran HQs on Vulcan but if there is something going on beyond family drama, we won't hear about it quickly enough."

He shook his head. "Vulcan family drama. I wonder what that looks like."

"Probably depends on the wife. You've met Amanda Grayson, right? Is she likely to be throwing dinner plates at her husband?"

"It's been a few years. She might be by now."

"Can't imagine what that must have been like for her," Katrina carried on, more quietly. "Married off to an alien she didn't even meet until the day before she became his wife. It's disgusting."

Lorca agreed, but it had made for a great alliance between Grayson's family and Vulcan, and by extension between Earth and Vulcan. When he had met her, she had seemed to be bearing her sacrifice well; she hadn't been married long, though. Now, who knew? She'd born him a son - what had that cost her? Then he remembered why Katrina had ended up in Bajor's far corner of the quadrant.

"I never said, by the way. But I'm sorry about Isabelle."

She visibly stiffened where she stood. They hadn't talked about it at all - she didn't even have any reason to know that he knew - and he felt bad he hadn't tried before now, especially considering the help she'd just tried to give him. Eventually she looked at him, relaxing a little under his reassuring gaze. He'd never given two shits what people did with their genitals, although he liked his too much to ever risk what she had.

"You must think I'm pretty stupid, right?"

He shrugged. "For getting caught - sure. Otherwise - well, you know me. Not the brightest bulb in the pack."

Kat laughed. "We're both still alive. Must be doing something right," she said, toasting him.

In the end, it did not take all that long for everyone to come to an agreement on how to move the agreed plan forward. In private conversations with Lorca and Katrina, Emperor Georgiou had surprised them both with the extent of her concerns about leaving the Vulcans in charge on Bajor. Lorca felt as stupid as he'd described himself to be: of course she would be; how could he have doubted it? You couldn't grasp the potential of what the Vulcans would be researching on Bajor without realising the risks of their success.

He felt even more stupid when she dismissed Katrina and told him that he would be departing Vulcan without Michael: until it was time for her to begin her studies at the Imperial Starfleet Academy, her daughter would be under the care of Sarek of Vulcan.


	9. Chapter 9 POSITIONAL PLAY

**Chapter 9 - Positional Play**

There was a long moment of stillness and silence, during which Lorca knew perfectly well he was expected to leave. He couldn't have even if he'd wanted to - he'd need to be able to breathe in order to move.

Georgiou paused mid-turn, sensing his lack of motion; her guards' hands slipped towards their holsters. He must have looked a sight, given how he felt.

"You've been dismissed, Captain," she told him cooly.

"Don't do it," he managed to croak. "Do not leave her with that… fucking _snake_."

She turned back to face him fully. "Are you giving your Emperor _orders_?"

He wasn't in the mood for games, for the platitudes of appearances. When he dropped to his knees in front of her, it was a genuine appeal to her authority and power. "Please, Your Majesty. We _must_ talk about this before it goes any further. _Please_."

Lorca kept his eyes on her feet, as supplication required of him, but he could feel her glare on him. He'd surprised her, he could tell, and she did not like to be surprised.

"Leave us," she barked to her men. "Get up, Gabriel, you look pathetic," she growled at him as soon as the doors had shut behind them. "Before you remind me just how much you dislike Special Envoy Sarek, I should let you know that it was Michael's idea and request."

"Please allow me to speak freely," he asked as he got to his feet. Georgiou sighed and waved a hand to invite him to do so. "From the moment he stepped on my ship, he was doing his damnedest to get himself in her good books. I know for a fact he has been in contact with his wife back on Vulcan while on Cornwell's ship - Sarek has been planning this all along. Do not give him what he wants."

"So you are telling me that Sarek has been… grooming Michael all this last little while? While he's been travelling with you?"

"That's exactly what I'm saying."

"And how was that allowed to happen, Gabriel, when Michael was under your care at the same time?"

Her gaze was as sharp as her words. Something twisted under his ribcage, just like it would if it had been a blade instead of words.

"I know," he admitted. "Believe me, I know. I _knew_. I tried to stop it, I failed. But you can make good that mistake."

Georgiou moved to stand by the large screen that stood as a kind of fake porthole. Images of space around the _Cerberus_ flicked over each other, providing her with a complete view of what or who surrounded her. She tilted her head as she contemplated Katrina's _ISS Endeavour_.

"Specify your concerns, Gabriel."

"It would be easier to tell you what I'm not concerned about. Everything about this stinks. Her physical safety, for a start. Is Sarek going to accept a contingent of Terran guards staying with Michael? That's the minimum she needs. And what exactly is he going to be teaching her for the next two years? He's managed to get under her skin pretty far in just 4 weeks."

"Are you aware of the political difficulties Sarek faces on Vulcan?" she asked. "He is viewed in many quarters as far too friendly towards Terrans and Terran rule. Hosting Michael will not improve his standing much."

"Or maybe that's all part of his plan. To make sure we trust him, until we trust him too far."

"Do you know what I like and dislike in equal measure about Vulcans?" Georgiou said. "Their pride and their arrogance. Perhaps it's being married to a Terran, but Sarek is actually quite a sensible man. Most Vulcans resent us, as you know, but he knows that our Empire is what keeps Vulcan safe from the Romulans and Klingons. You also know, if your recent report is to be believed," she added, looking back at him, "that we need the Vulcans just as much. Or at the very least, we cannot afford to go to war with them. And when the time comes for Michael to succeed me, she will need the support of Vulcan. The Vulcans have been wise enough to remain as disengaged as possible from matters of succession, but history tells us that a ruler who does not receive their backing does not survive long. Michael needs to learn how to handle Vulcans and being a guest of one of the most prominent houses on their world will give her access to their elite. And we can spin it as a vote of respect for Vulcan culture. Their vanity won't be able to resist it."

Lorca thought about what Sarek had said about the Bajorans and how right he had been. Was it born out of self-awareness? If it was, what did it mean? But if he couldn't argue with the need to keep Vulcan onside, he could argue about other things. "What about her safety? There are logic extremists who would jump at the chance of killing your heir."

Georgiou smiled that grim smile of hers. "Oh, Sarek will be fully incentivised to keep Michael from harm. You see, while Michael will be his guest, his son Spock will be mine. Can you imagine that? A Human-Vulcan half-breed. I wonder what that looks like."

Spock. He was twelve years-old, if Lorca's memory served him right. "It still doesn't feel right," Lorca insisted, even as he knew there was nothing more he could say or do.

"Are you sure you've shared _all_ your concerns, Gabriel?"

"What do you mean?"

She crossed the room to sit on what was her throne aboard her ship. "You worry about Michael spending too much time with Sarek. Others worry about Michael spending too much time with you."

Lorca was momentarily too surprised to answer, and it was anger that brought words out of him. "Those who are disloyal to you might well be, but I don't give a shit about them, and neither should you. And only what _you_ think matters. So is that what you think? Are _you_ worried, Your Majesty? Have I given you any reason to be?"

"No. I am not, of course."

There'd been a pause before she'd replied to him. Very, very small, barely noticeable, but a pause nevertheless. He clenched his fists, doing nothing to hide his anger. It hadn't been his idea to leave Michael with him all those years ago. He'd done his best with her, first because she'd been just a kid and then because she was brilliant, and he believed in Georgiou and what they were trying to do. He'd nearly given his life over and over for the Empire - _her_ Empire. And it was not _enough_?

One of the qualities he admired in Georgiou was her fairness. She was implacable, pitiless but she was fair. He assumed that's why she said what she said next. "You have been good for Michael, as I thought you would be. You have cared for her, as I expected you would. And you have protected her, as I knew you would. For that I am grateful." The pause was deliberate this time, before she tapped on her communicator and recalled her guards. "I will leave you to assess the arrangements for Michael on Vulcan. You have ten days."

"Training deck - _now_."

Katrina had waited for him to finish with Georgiou, probably curious as to why he'd been held back, and Lorca'd never been more grateful to her. All the way to the transporter room, he had tried to rein in his frustration and regain control of his thoughts and had clearly failed. The training deck was a good idea: once Katrina had ordered everyone out, including her own men, he seized one of the blunted swords and launched himself at one of the practice mannequins. Except he wasn't there for practice: his strikes were made of brute force and rage, his arms shuddering from the impact of his blows on metal armour. It didn't take long before he felt a telltale quivering in his muscles and had to stop to catch his breath. He was hot, with sweat clinging to his neck, trickling over his scalp. He dropped his sword to the floor and clutched at the mannequin to keep on his feet. He'd thrown his entire body into this outburst so now even his legs felt tired. There was a part of him that was now berating him for an utterly pitiful display of swordsmanship - whichever part had kept him alive all these years, that kept it all under control.

"Get a grip, Gabe," Katrina snapped, echoing his thoughts. A towel and bottle hit his back. He picked up both, made sure to keep himself straight as he gulped down water.

"Found out what Sarek was up to," he said.

"Figured as much. And?"

"Michael's gonna be staying with him for a couple of years."

"Son of a bitch." He nodded, taking sustenance from knowing he wasn't the only one after all who didn't like the idea. "What did you do?"

"Told Georgiou all the ways it was a stupid thing to allow. Without using the word 'stupid'," he added at her look of consternation. "She had more reasons why it wasn't."

Katrina started pacing, hands on hips, as they always were when she was thinking fast but deeply. The familiarity of it was comforting, steadying. He wondered whether he could take her to bed later.

"She's probably right -" both hands were up now, asking him to listen to her "- as much as we might both hate it. It's going to be good for you, too."

"How d'you figure that?"

"You know there's quite a few people who don't think Michael should have been given the throne the way she was -"

"Fuck 'em. She's done more to earn it than all of them put together."

"For God's sake, Gabriel - you cannot afford to think like that!" Katrina sighed with exasperation. "Why are you pinning everything - your future, the future of the Empire - on that… _girl_?"

Lorca stared at her, confused. He thought they'd been in agreement when it came to Michael. "Why? _Why_? You've seen what she can do, Kat. Who she is. People like her don't come along every day."

"Oh come on. Michael Burnham is not the first child prodigy in history. If it wasn't for when and where she was found - she'd be in one of our accelerated science programmes, yes - but not the heir to the Terran Empire. And she _is_ just a girl. She has a long way to go. Meanwhile, what do you think would happen to her _and_ you if Georgiou were to go tomorrow?"

 _I would cross the length of the Empire if I had to, to keep her safe. To give her the chance she deserved._

The question of what _Katrina_ would do was on his lips but he did not ask it, unsure he would be able to accept her answer.

 _She's right_.

There it was again. That voice.

"What are you saying, Kat?" he asked finally.

"I'm saying that distancing yourself a little from Michael won't do _you_ any harm. Not just politically, but - emotionally as well. You need to get some perspective back, Gabriel."

It was sensible advice. He was grateful for it, because it meant he had someone he could trust to give him sensible advice. That was the feeling he had to hold on to, because every fibre of his non-thinking body was telling him he was wrong. And his instincts were another reason he had made it this far, too.

"Okay."

"Okay what?" she pushed.

"Everything you said." Katrina studied him up and down with narrow eyes and arms crossed. "Not like I have a choice, right?"

"You do have a choice. Between doing something stupid, or doing something smart."

"Not what I would call a choice."

"Nonetheless, it is one. You've seen how often people go for stupid. You've seen _me_ do it, and not that long ago."

He nodded, then ran the towel over his face and head again, before dropping it in a basket full of similarly dirty cloth. He had a lot of reading to do and was going to have to face Sarek earlier rather than later to discuss what Georgiou had called "arrangements" for Michael. Katrina was right about the need to distance himself but not for the reasons she thought. If Michael's enemies were already vocalising their opposition to her, it was time he got to know them. It was always better to cut down weeds before they had a chance to seed.

It was another two days before he saw Michael again. She had boarded her mother's ship and Georgiou was keeping her busy, with no shared meals between the three of them. It was only right since the Emperor had not seen her daughter in several weeks but Lorca suspected she was being kept away from him on purpose. Sarek's ever so slight wariness he had expected and even welcomed: the Vulcan had bested him but at least he could still scare him a little - even if he was hardly going to knife the asshole on Kat's ship. But what did Georgiou think Lorca might do with Michael- try to change her mind? Since when was that even possible?

Or maybe Georgiou, like Kat, had known that he needed 'to get a grip', because when he saw her again in one of the _Cerberus_ ' transporter room he didn't feel angry but resigned - and he didn't like the distance he saw in her eyes when she looked at him; she'd always had a somewhat standoffish manner, even as a ten year-old, but that had mostly gone when she was in his company. Until now.

"Your Highness," he greeted her with a slight bow. She was not wearing uniform armour so he assumed she wasn't on duty.

"Captain Lorca," she replied, nodding.

They stood side by side in silence for a while, until the absurdity of it could no longer be denied and made him chuckle.

Michael glanced at him. "Do share, Captain. I can always use a good joke."

 _You sure could_ , he thought. "I hate small talk, you hate small talk. You'd think it'd feel a hell of a lot less awkward to stand here in silence."

"Making small talk might still be worse."

"Yeah. You're probably right." Lorca was very aware of the transporter room officer standing behind them. He had nothing confidential to share with Michael but it _was_ personal. He leaned closer to her ear so he could speak quietly. "So I'll skip straight past all that bullshit. You know how I feel about Sarek and Vulcans. I'm not gonna pretend I understand why you want to do this. But it's happening and I understand _that_. I'm not always going to agree with you, Your Highness, but I'm _always_ going to be on your side. I thought I'd made that clear."

Michael bit her lip, and he thought he saw her cheeks darken. "You still think it's a mistake."

"Do you really care what I think?"

"Of course I do, Gabriel," she whispered fiercely, finally looking at him in the eye. "I thought I'd made _that_ clear."

He thought back to their argument over the time she'd spent with Sarek on their way to Bajor. He supposed she had. "If I can make sure you will be safe - then it really doesn't matter what I think. Sound fair?"

She nodded, and just like that - the awkwardness was gone. "Maybe later -" Michael began, before she was interrupted by the officer behind them.

"Message from the Vulcan frigate, Your Highness," she said. She'd not bothered to even try to pronounce the ship's name. "They are ready to transport."

Michael straightened. "Then we are ready to receive."

Tingling, cascading curtains of light, and their guest was on the pad: a Terran female in her mid-30s with beautifully braided brown hair and a warm smile, her pretty features somehow made beautiful by her austere Vulcan robes.

"Lady Amanda, welcome aboard the _ISS Cerberus_ ," Lorca said, bowing before stepping forward to offer his hand as she stepped down.

"Thank you, Captain Lorca." Still holding his hand, she curtsied with a bow in front of Michael. "Your Highness, it is an honour to meet you and welcome you to my house."

"Who would have thought it? Hell is real after all."

Lorca grunted agreement with his Emperor. It was almost nine in the evening and the Vulcan sun was about to set, but the heat remained inescapable as soon as you stepped out of the air-conditioned Terran residence, even on a shaded and tiled terrace. Georgiou was undoubtedly the toughest person he knew and, in spite of her remark, bore the heat better than he did: it made him feel better about his own physical resilience if she too was finding it hard to put up with in spite of the special suits and the nasal canulas.

Down below them in the gardens, Michael stumbled and dropped to her knees. Her back heaved a couple of times, as though she was going to be sick, but she waved away the two guards who rushed to her side. A few feet ahead of her, Spock stood staring at her for a few moments before rushing away to fetch his mother.

"I thought she was going to be resting after this afternoon's excursion?" Georgiou said. "What is she doing running around after that boy?"

"Playing tag, looks like."

"Stupid girl," she muttered. "Do we need to worry about Lady Amanda after all?"

Lady Amanda.

As they had begun to confer over the details of Michael's life on Vulcan, it had become clear that the Terrans on the planet would be of limited use to her, prone as they were to keep themselves to themselves. The nearest thing to a Terran diplomatic representative was the Terran military liaisons on the ground and patrolling the edges of the Vulcan system but they did little beyond engaging on a practical basis with the Vulcans - and even then it was limited to Vulcan government staff and members. Even the scientific mission that worked closely with the Vulcan Science Academy did little social interaction with their native colleagues. Only Amanda Grayson, the only human spouse to a Vulcan currently on the planet had experience of actually living in and navigating Vulcan society as a Terran. It was only _logical_ that she should be involved in preparing Michael ahead of her arrival, and she had been duly requested to join them on the _Cerberus_.

Before her arrival on Georgiou's ship, Lorca had started to imagine some pale, haunted creature, rarely allowed out from whatever tower Sarek kept her prisoner in, and maybe half-mad from a life surrounded by fleshy androids. Instead, she'd turned out to be a warm and loquacious woman who was appropriately respectful of her betters without being remotely intimidated by them. Georgiou found her baffling, too, he knew, but clearly Lady Amanda had done much better than simply survive in Vulcan society, so whatever she could suggest to help Michael was worth listening to, even if it went against their own instincts. Such as Michael acclimatising herself to Vulcan's climate and atmosphere the hard way.

"There are three reasons to do it that way, Your Majesty," she had explained. "Firstly, our current artificial means to tolerate the heat, higher gravity and thinner air are uncomfortable, and permanently so. It's also a display of mental strength and discipline, which are both highly regarded by Vulcans. Her Highness will find it difficult, I will not pretend otherwise. She will be sick, exhausted. She will feel weak. Her ability to push through all of that will earn her respect. Most importantly… if circumstances leave her alone and stranded, she cannot remain dependent on implants and gadgets to keep her alive."

'Circumstances.' Nice euphemism for assassination or kidnapping attempt. It had sealed a compelling argument.

The reality was difficult to watch. Michael had taken Lady Amanda's words to heart and then some, as only Michael would, and she seemed to think that whatever pains acclimatization involved came in a finite amount that she could somehow pack into a short span of time. She had fainted while touring some caves earlier that day and been sick, too.

Lady Amanda was there now, kneeling beside Michael with an oxygen mask. Michael shoved her hand aside but she was too weak to do it again when Lady Amanda grabbed her wrist and forced the mask over her mouth and nose.

"Michael!" Georgiou called unceremoniously. Lady Amanda's head jerked upwards towards them - she clearly hadn't realised there were spectators - and it took Michael a moment more to do so. "Inside, now."

Lady Amanda let the Terran Guards pick Michael up to take her back inside. It was hard to tell for sure in the crepuscule, but she looked like she was having some stern words with her son before following them back inside.

"I will try and impress upon Michael just how much of a fool she's making of herself," the Emperor said. "Try and impress upon Lady Amanda that she is not to let her when we are gone."

Lorca bowed and left her apartments quickly. Seeing Michael like this, breathless and vulnerable, was tying knots in his guts, and he found his hand wandering to his phaser holster for the umpteenth time that day. Part of him thought that Georgiou was having second thoughts about the whole thing, but he also knew that taking Michael back now would go down really badly both here on Vulcan and back home. It all felt too much like a trap, one that he couldn't blast his way out of - unless it involved grabbing Michael and shooting out of the Vulcan skies.

You were supposed to get wiser with age, so where did all those stupid ideas keep coming from?

Lady Amanda was in her kitchen, dropping brightly coloured fruits and vegetables into a blender. She didn't look at him as she added a fine white powder before whizzing it all into a juice. "The powder is a rehydrating compound, very rich in electrolytes. It'll help."

"And the other stuff?"

"It makes the compound taste better and helps with digestion. I've had a word with Spock," she continued, quickly. "He should have known better than playing that game with Michael. I apologise unreservedly."

She poured the contents into a large glass, which she then pushed towards him along the counter. "If you could test it quickly, one of my guards can take it up to Michael."

"You're too smart to poison the Emperor's daughter while the Emperor is your guest," he said lightly. He called one of the Terran guards and handed her the drink.

"These guards have been keeping me and Spock safe for a number of years. Their loyalty cannot be faulted. And you'll have Spock, won't you?"

He realises then that it was the first time since they had become acquainted that she looked anything other than warm and friendly. He wondered if she thought he'd sought her out in order to punish Spock. Come to think of it, he hadn't seen the boy return to the house from the gardens. Maybe he was hiding somewhere.

It was a good thing she felt a little fear after all yet Lorca couldn't help but sympathise; he was leaving something precious in the hands of strangers, too.

"Can we talk somewhere else?"

"The library?"

Lorca stood aside, signalling he would follow her. The library was the most Terran room in the house, filled with actual printed books, colourful prints and utterly pointless (by Vulcan standards) nicknacks. The chairs were a lot more comfortable, too. She invited him to sit down but he chose to lean against a shelf instead, arms crossed. She chose a seat near a window, perching primly on its edge.

"I'd like to apologise again about Spock. It won't happen again."

Of course, it wouldn't. In a couple of days the boy would be gone. "Was it Michael's idea, by any chance?" he asked.

Lady Amanda hesitated slightly before replying, diplomatically, "That is what Spock said, yes."

"Is your son a liar?"

"He is not."

He nodded. "Look, I appreciate you're in a tricky position, especially while we're here in your house. But I know Michael, and so does her mother. She's stubborn and proud and generally thinks she's invincible. You saw what she did when you tried to help. You're gonna have to do a lot of that kind of thing. In fact we're counting on you to do it. Everything Michael does will reflect upon her mother and her mother's rule. The Emperor is going to make it very clear to her daughter that she needs to be as sensible as she's clever, but she will need reminding. Anything you do that keeps Michael safe and any embarrassment to a minimum will be approved of, and appreciated."

"You're not changing your mind, then? About my approach."

"No. You're right. This shit's awful."

Lorca pointed to the breathing apparatus he was wearing, which was helping him deal with the thinner air - and was so itchy and ticklish that it was hard not to rip it off his face. The rest of it was, too: the cooling suit that didn't adapt instantly to the changes in temperature between inside and outside and that did nothing to keep your head cool, and the anti-gravity belt that made his stomach lurch with every step he took. "Besides, it's clearly worked for you."

"It was hard, when I first came here. I'm glad to save _anyone_ some of what I went through."

"What exactly did you go through?"

Her reply was quick, practiced. "That's a story I'm saving for a book."

"That bad, uh?"

Lady Amanda stood then. She was smiling but it didn't reach her eyes. "Is there anything else I can help you with?"

Lorca had made his remark in jest but realised now just what a stupid thing to say it was. He really had no idea of what she'd gone through - and not even by choice. Sarek was better disposed towards Terrans than most Vulcans but it was all relative. It had not been his choice to marry a Terran woman, either.

"I'm sorry, Lady Amanda," he tried. "I am."

She considered him for a long moment, a whole array of emotions sweeping through her eyes until one finally won over the others. "You're sorry? What for?"

There was steel in that question, a sharpness he'd never have expected from her.

Before he could respond, she continued. "You are not the first one to forget, so I am happy to remind you. I am the Lady Amanda - " she switched suddenly to Vulcan, and the alien words coming out of her mouth sounded like a devilish incantation of power. He straightened up, arms falling to his sides. "I am the wife of Sarek, son of Skon, Special Envoy to the Terran Empire. And I am owed more respect than you are giving me, _Captain_."

"I'm sorry," he said sincerely, though still baffled by the turn the conversation had taken. "I meant no disrespect."

"I'm sure you didn't. In fact I'm sure you meant to pity me. You're not the first to do that, either. But why pity me? Political marriages happen all the time. So is it because you think that my husband is some beastly ogre? Do you fear the horrors that his green-blooded hands may have perpetrated on my Terran body? Or does the thought in fact thrill you? Sarek told me you had a broader mind than most but it looks to me like you are just like the rest of them."

Still trying to process the idea that those words had come out of Sarek's mouth, it took Lorca a moment to regain his composure. "And what is that?"

"Deaf to Terran weaknesses and blind to Vulcan strengths."

"Those are treacherous words, Lady Amanda." They put ice in Lorca's blood. They had assumed that Sarek's wife being Terran was another guarantor of Michael's safety. "Is that how you made it? By going native?"

"If I were to tell you that Terran forces are stretched to breaking point, that our borders are weakening and that this is why we are not currently at war with Cardassia over Bajor's resources, would you call that treacherous words, or the truth?"

He could have questioned where she got her information from but it would have been a waste of time. Sarek clearly shared a great deal with his wife. Right now it was impossible to tell what to make of it, although it could clearly work in their favour if she was given the right incentive.

"Does Sarek share this much information with all his family? Is Spock going to have something to share with us to pass the time on the way back to Earth?"

"Your threats really don't need to be so veiled. They don't even need to be said."

"Parents have been known to sacrifice children for their people -"

Lady Amanda slapped him. The higher gravity had led her to develop some power under her robes. It hurt like hell.

"When I was told I was going to marry Sarek, I thought about killing myself. I was scared, you see. That he _was_ going to be an ogre. But I didn't go through with it because I could never have done that to my family. The disgrace would have been too much. The insult to the Vulcans even worse, and God knows what the consequences of that might have been. Do you want to hear something truly treacherous, Captain? My family is the only thing that matters to me. Once it was my parents and my siblings. Now it's my husband and my son."

She turned to go, then turned back at the last minute. "We have spoken much about Michael's safety and not enough about Spock's. I fully accept what may happen if Michael is hurt or worse. Are you prepared for what would follow if something happened to my son?"

Lorca watched her leave, stunned. His cheek where she'd struck him was stinging. A few minutes ago, he'd thought Lady Amanda's love for Spock was a weakness to exploit, a shield with which to protect Michael. Now it seemed more akin to a double-edged sword.


End file.
